


Ring Around The Rosie

by wannabesirACD



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF John Watson, Eventual Smut, Feels, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, No Graphic Details of Rape tho, Post-Season/Series 04, Schizophrenic OC, mention of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 05:57:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13630074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wannabesirACD/pseuds/wannabesirACD
Summary: In the aftermath of Eurus Holmes and John's return to Baker Street with Rosie, the duo are confronted with issue after issue as they attempt to help the broken mind of a bloodied young man who turns up at Scotland Yard.





	1. Ring

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [John Watson's 12 Step Program](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8756152) by [Sherlyjohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlyjohn/pseuds/Sherlyjohn). 



> This is the first Johnlock fanfic that I've written in a long while, and the newfound inspiration comes from Sherlyjohn's fic "John Watson's 12 Step Program". Read it, it's really good.

John was struggling more than he would care to admit. Hidden behind the fine's and okay's was a void, one that Mary left and Rosie only partially filled. He could sometimes see Mary in their daughter, and that hurt the worst; knowing that he offered his emotions to another woman, let Rosie's mother fade away in his arms, and was now taking out the grief and guilt he felt on his innocent daughter, passing her off to Mrs. Hudson when he couldn't bare to see Mary's resemblance one more time that day. Rosie didn't deserve this treatment, John knew that. John's coming and going would developmentally hamper his precious daughter, and he knew that, too.

 _His_ daughter. Reminding himself of that always seemed to help him get control of himself. He took in a deep breath and stood up, hearing Rosie starting to stir in her crib. She was closing in on two, now, and was saying small sentences, walking and running, and was mostly potty trained, save for the occasional nighttime accident. John didn't feel right trying to think that he helped in any way. He placed the praise on Sherlock and Ms. Hudson, the saintly mother figure to Sherlock and John both.

Sherlock... He had really changed after Mary died, and even more now that John and Rosie were living in 221b with him. John wasn't sure whether to say it was for better or for-

"Dadda."

Rosie brought John from his thoughts, smiling and standing up in her crib, tiny hands holding onto the top of the wooden railing. She rubbed her eyes with a balled fist and John smiled softly.

"'Ello there my little cuppa," John cooed. Rosie beamed as John walked over - ever since John first called her his "cuppa", she loved it. He didn't know why she did, perhaps it was just the way he said it, but it seemed to calm and soothe her whenever he did. "How did you sleep?"

Rosie looked down in her crib as John stood there, clad in pajama bottoms and an undershirt. She was eyeing her favorite blanket, a bright pink plush one with a teddy bear patch sewn into one of the corners that Mrs. Hudson bought when they moved back into Baker Street. John bent down with a soft grunt and picked it up, hoisting Rosie up and over the crib railing in the process. He set her down on her feet, saying, "Go to the potty and you'll get your blanket, okay?"

As if suddenly realizing how badly she needed to go, she held the crotch of her pants and quickly waddled off to the slightly ajar bathroom door. John listened carefully for a moment to see if she made it or needed help, and when he saw her sit down on the seat he sighed in relief. As he turned to a black dresser to grab today's garments, the bedroom door softly opened. He jumped and spun on his heels to face the door-

Sherlock stared wide-eyed back at him, wearing a white button up, black slacks, and his favorite blue bath robe.

John let out a harsh breath and immediately relaxed, shoulders lowering and fists releasing their fighting grip.

"Christ, Sherlock - Knock next time?" John breathed with exasperation, rubbing his eyes with one hand while the other found his waist. Sherlock opened his mouth, paused, then spoke:

"I didn't realize you were awake. Considering your restless evening last night, I was going to bring Rosamund downstairs so you could 'sleep in' this morning." Sherlock glanced at the door, hearing Rosamund clambering off her training potty. John was too busy thinking through the surprise of Sherlock's considerate thought.

"I... thank you." John swallowed, avoiding Sherlock's eyes as he said the words.

"No need," Sherlock replied in his usual indifferent baritone, "You were already awake and-"

"No, for the forethought." John cut Sherlock off, knowing where his train of thought had already led him. He met his eyes, not so afraid of the vulnerability now that he said the hardest part. "Thank you for thinking of that and being willing to do it."

"Ah." Sherlock hummed. "Still, no need to thank me. As you are fond of reminding me, sleep is necessary for proper bodily functioning, and 'sleeping in' is merely a social construct of-"

"Lock!"

Rosie walked through the door opening and beamed at Sherlock, arms raised as she waddled towards him in her purple underwear, pajama bottoms discarded on the bathroom floor. John saw something rare of the old Sherlock, but far more common of the new Sherlock he had come to know over the past few months - this Sherlock smiled, warm and inviting. Realizing the change in Sherlock earlier likely caused the flare up of warmth and peace in John's chest at seeing the product of Sherlock's change in the flesh.

"You didn't wash your hands." Sherlock deduced and told her, firm but not mean. John knew this was the case, but must have had an odd look about him that made Sherlock question it when he glanced at John. He focused on Rosie after a second of glancing at John. "Go wash your hands, please."

She pouted.

"Rosamund..." He said in a warning, this-is-not-debatable tone. She whimpered in frustration and stomped off to the bathroom again, scowling. "I suppose today is dedicated to the Watson's interrupting me."

John smirked softly, seeing the abrasive bit of himself in his daughter's behavior that Sherlock had mentioned. John glanced at Sherlock and said, "I'll help her. We'll meet you downstairs." There was a hint of something in John's eyes that told Sherlock that John had something he wanted to mention, something about Sherlock, but John turned and followed Rosie to help her turn the faucet on and reach the sink. Sherlock hummed in mild acknowledgement and curiosity before he left, closing the door behind him. He went downstairs and resumed his position at the kitchen table, his laptop left open from when he noticed the time and went up the stairs to perform his 'thoughtful' deed.

Hm, _thoughtful_. Sherlock hadn't considered thoughtfulness as a good thing, before. Typically others told him to stop thinking so much. Or was that talking? Sherlock heard both whenever his mind was whirring with deductions and ideas.

Twenty minutes later Sherlock could hear Rosamund and her father descending the stairs as he researched information on an experiment he was considering. Rosie was singing a happy tune and John was chiding her to keep her blanket off the floor lest she trip and fall. The door to the flat opened and Sherlock murmured, "Good morning, Rosamund. John."

"Lockie!" Rosie cheered and ran toward Sherlock sitting in his chair. Sherlock twisted and reached out just in time to catch her as she tripped on her blanket.

"No running in doors, little Watson." He chided her softly as he lifted her, kissing her cheek before he turned her around and sat her on his thigh. He draped the trailing edge of her blanket over her pastel pink trousers, arm holding her jumper-clad torso in place, as he said, "Why don't we play the bubble game while your father fixes himself tea?"

"Bubbals," she clapped excitedly and watched Sherlock poke his laptop and move a weirdly shaped ball around on the table, pressing on it with a finger every so often. When she looked back, The Bubbal Game was in front of them.

Sherlock led Rosie through the task of making the solution to blow bubbles through an online flash game while John made his own concoction in his mug. He made a cup of tea for Sherlock as well, remembering how he liked his tea, and poured a little of Sherlock's into a smaller glass for Rosie. Whatever Sherlock or John ate or drank, Rosie wanted to try, and one of the few things she liked so far was Sherlock's favorite flavor of tea, just with more milk and sugar. John smiled, remembering how her face scrunched up one time when she dared to try John's straight black coffee.

John let Rosie's tea cool before she gave Sherlock and Rosie their tea, keeping Sherlock's water in the kettle to keep his drink warm. Sherlock hummed a thank you before he took a sip, and Rosie reached for John's hand where her favorite sippy cup - a superhero themed cup with activity book stickers covering the outside - was being held.

"What do you say, Rosie?" John prompted, giving her a look.

"Pwease?" Rosie whined, and John set her sippy cup down, checking the lid to make sure it was on tight. "Dank you."

"Your welcome, cuppa." John kissed the top of her head then grabbed the newspaper from next to Sherlock's laptop, walking around the side of the table to sit across from them. John read the front page and his eyebrows raised. "Sherlock?"

"Lestrade already reported the errors to the press," Sherlock remarked. "They'll have a revised story printed by tomorrow morning."

"How could they report it _this_ incorrectly?" John wondered aloud, remembering the twenty or so reporters standing outside the crime scene tape yesterday. The poor woman's death was deemed a suicide by the media before Sherlock and John had even arrived, and despite John tackling her murderer to the cobblestone street about six hours later, they were still pushing this narrative.

"John, you're asking me to understand the incompetence of others," Sherlock reminded John, watching Rosie point to the colored bottles she wanted to mix together. "If you cannot understand it, how do you expect me to?"

"Touche." John sighed, reaching for his tea. He was about to sip it when his phone rang in his jeans' pocket. Sherlock perked up, recognizing the ringtone.

"That's Lestrade." He grinned and looked down at Rosamund, who was now trying to climb off his lap. He helped her down and picked up her blanket as she walked across the flat to her toys on the floor. John had the phone pressed to his ear, greeting the caller with his name.

"Doctor Watson."

Sherlock stood and dropped Rosie's blanket beside her on the floor, then took off toward the door. He grabbed his coat and raced down the stairs to knock on Ms. Hudson's door, but she was already exiting her flat and turning to look up the stairs when he was about halfway down.

"Ah, perfect timing as always, Ms. Hudson. Lestrade has a case."

"Oh," she smiled, "Where's John?"

"On the phone with Lestrade, still." Sherlock sighed. Ms. Hudson smirked slightly - Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why.

"Good thing I was coming up to visit, anyways." Ms. Hudson patted Sherlock on the arm once he reached the bottom of the stairs and tugged his coat on. Just then, they both heard John open and close the flat door. As he began to descend the stairs, Ms. Hudson whispered, "Don't let John overwork himself this time. He can't go around tackling thugs on every case. He'll hurt his shoulder."

"I'm not his keeper, Ms. Hudson," Sherlock gave her a sincere look, a promise in his eyes, "but I will not let him be injured, just as I've always strived to do." She gave Sherlock a look of worry, but wisely chose not to continue the conversation. John turned the corner of the stairwell and met Sherlock's eyes, then Ms. Hudson's.

"Ah, good, I see you've already asked her." John looked at Sherlock. "Lestrade wants to see us at The Yard."

Sherlock frowned, confused. "Why?"

"A man showed up claiming he was being chased by something then became unresponsive. They've got him sitting in Lestrade's office right now."

"Then why are we going?" Sherlock scowled.

"Not _entirely_ sure, but he _is_ covered in blood and had a pocketknife on his person."

Sherlock's frown faded and he stared thoughtfully at John, just as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Hm. Interesting."


	2. Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock arrive at Scotland Yard to find the Yarders, particularly Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, in a tough situation. Being the medical expert on scene, John meets the man that Greg called him about.

"Good, you're here." Lestrade breathed as he saw John and Sherlock approach him at his office's door. "The kid's calmed down but I'd still be careful if I were you."

"What happened?" John asked, glancing over as Sherlock walked up to Lestrade's office window to peer inside.

"We'd like to know that, too." Lestrade sighed and nodded toward the window, "Come take a look."

The two took a couple of steps then stopped next to where Sherlock was standing, looking in. There was a young man, in his mid-twenties, sitting in the corner of Lestrade's office. He had dark brown hair and chocolate eyes that were staring absently at the carpet. His lanky form was contorted so his bony knees were against his chest, his arms wrapped around his shins. His palms had the dried remnants of blood staining his skin, splatters dotting his hands and forearms.

"We thought about putting him in an interrogation room, but we didn't want to freak him out even more." One side of Lestrade's mouth turned downwards as the three men looked inside. "He wouldn't let us get close enough to see if the blood was his or not, but we didn't see any life-threatening, obvious injuries, so we corralled him in here."

"I suppose that's why you called me?" John questioned, not looking away from the victim... suspect... individual.

"Partially," Lestrade started. Sherlock beat him to the finish, however.

"You're wanting one of us to see if he's got an ID."

Lestrade swallowed and nodded. "We asked him for it, of course, but... he's so out of it that it's like he doesn't register the question." Lestrade sighed. "I called Doctor Watson mostly 'cause, well... The kid's clearly mentally ill, and-"

"And I've got experience from dealing with patients." John glanced over at Lestrade and Sherlock then went for the door, "You said you got the pocketknife off him?"

"Yeah, he came in wielding it." Lestrade rubbed his stubble with one hand, the other on his hip. "Dropped it when his episode passed. It's down in forensics now."

John put his hand on the door handle, took a breath, and turned it slowly. This was not his first encounter with the mentally ill. Working in the surgery had its fair share of suicide attempts and suicide watches, but this was different. This was quite literally psychotic. Like knowing there's a landmine _somewhere_ but not knowing where.

The door swung open, and as it did the young man tried to bolt up but was so compacted into the corner that he tripped over himself, landing on his side on the carpet.

"It's okay," John reassured, holding out a hand to signal him to stop as John tentatively closed the door behind himself. "You can stay there. I won't come any closer."

"Where am I?" The man said in a shaking tone of voice, sitting up and pressing his back against the wall, using his arms to brace himself. "Who are you?"

"My name is John. John Watson." John lowers his hand down to his side. "I'm a doctor."

The man shouts, "No!" and scrambles across the floor to hide behind Lestrade's desk chair. "No no no-"

"I'm not going to touch you." John tries to remind the man. "I just want to talk."

"He always wants to talk." The man grasps Lestrade's rolling chair at the base and snarls, "Talk talk talk."

"Who?" John leans over so he can see the young man, grimacing as sore muscles move underneath the skin and clothes. Suddenly, the young man perks up, eyes softening with surprise and... concern?

"You're hurt." He whispers. "Did he hurt you, too?" John's brows furrow curiously.

"Did 'who' hurt me?" John pries, standing up straight and skirting the far wall so he can see the man and not strain his back.

"The rat." The man slowly rises until he can slither into Lestrade's seat, looking at John from over the back of it with his knees planted into the cushioned seat. John cocks his head with interest.

"I'm not sure. Why don't you tell me about the rat?" He prompts, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. The man shakes his head furiously and looks down at the carpet around the chair.

"It's around." He murmurs. "'Round, 'round, 'round. It's always around, always listening." He looks back up at John with wide, crazed eyes and a warning tone to his voice. "You have to listen or it hurts you."

"What does it tell you to do?"

"Hurt others." The man looks down at his hands on the top of Lestrade's chair back, seemingly noticing the blood on his hands and arms. "Hurt myself. I don't want to but if I don't it'll kill me."

"The rat will kill you?" John asks, pushing himself off the wall to stand freely. The man nods, and John nods slowly, taking in the information. "Is it alright if I sit across from you?" The man eyes one of the two armchairs placed a few feet away in front of Lestrade's desk, and his lips tighten into a thin line. He gives a sharp nod, not once taking his eye off John as John follows the wall and then tugs the chair a little further back and sits down.

"Earlier I told you my name. Do you remember it?" John watched the man's face closely, looking for some uncertainty or a forgetfulness that might give himself and the two men watching outside some narrowing information.

"John." The man replied after a moment. John smiled and nodded, crossing one leg over the other and adjusting his coat.

"Can you tell me your name, now?"

"Oliver." A slight pause. "... Yes, Oliver."

"Oliver, do you have anything on your person?" John asked, calmly adding, "Perhaps a phone, a wallet..." Oliver shakes his head.

"He took it." He replied, sounding surprisingly coherent for the first time since the conversation began. John's hopes raised just before the look of reality shifted from Oliver's eyes. "The rat. It takes everything off of everyone."

Bells rang in John's head at the inflection Oliver gave to _everyone_.

"Everyone." John repeated, tilting his head slightly. "Who is 'everyone', exactly?"

Oliver grimaces and grabs his head, growling lowly, "Shut up shut up shut _uuuup_." The volume of his voice tells John that Oliver likely isn't talking to him. He silently watches for a moment as Oliver snarls and grips his hair tight in one hand.

"Oliver?" John attempts to get his attention, leaning forward slightly with his hands in his lap. "Focus on me, okay? Focus on my voice."

"So many," Oliver whimpers softly, "There's so many."

"I know, but you've got to focus on mine. I'm going to help you, but you've got to help me, too." John swallows, teeth clenching as he chooses his question and its wording carefully. "Do you remember where you live? Is there anyone we can call for you?"

"White walls," Oliver starts to mumble aimlessly, "white ceiling, white jacket, white white white-" Oliver grips the arm of Lestrade's chair and rocks gently, causing him to slowly turn in place as his speech becomes incoherent. John frowns and watches him for a couple of minutes and wondering where to go from here. With a soft sigh he stands up with a grunt and quietly leaves the room.


	3. The Rosie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following John's impromptu interview with "Oliver", Sherlock and Lestrade join him outside the office to discuss what Oliver said and what to do next.

John sighed as he closed the door to Lestrade's office. He didn't bother to lock it; Oliver was unresponsive once more, battling whatever demons he had in his head.

"Well, that went better than expected." Lestrade said optimistically, looking at John with a mildly surprised expression.

"I'm not an expert on psychosis," John glanced at Sherlock who was still looking through the window at Oliver, "but it certainly seems like some form of schizophrenia."

"I'll call our forensic psychologist and get him to take a look and give a diagnosis as soon as he's in." Greg reassured then frowned, realizing an issue with his plan. "Although it seems like 'Oliver' doesn't seem fond of doctors."

"Likely a product of whatever situation he was in prior to us meeting him."

Sherlock looked at the two men next to him after he spoke. Greg met his eyes for a moment then looked at Oliver with a thoughtful gaze, as if he could figure out what was wrong just by looking. Sherlock and John met eyes next, and John new that expression on Sherlock's face and the message hidden there.

"The place he described  _did_ sound like a hospital, maybe - or a mental institution." John confessed with a soft breath trailing behind. "But-"

"There's something else there." Sherlock interrupted, agreeing with John. His lips tightened into a thin line. "Something hidden behind the illness, locked away in his head."

"If we can shift the mental instability, even if it's just a tiny bit," John paused, trying not to sound too hopeful. "I mean, he was coherent for a second, there. I could see it in his eyes."

"Do you think you could get through to him again?" Sherlock pondered aloud, and John noticed that Sherlock was no longer looking at him. They were all now staring at the mystery in Lestrade's office chair, the lanky young adult with dark brown hair.

"Not immediately, no." John frowned. "I don't want to put too much pressure on an already stressed mind. But he trusts me, at least a little bit. That's good enough for now."

"Well, I need to be able to use my office." Lestrade scowled in mild frustration. "Where the hell are we going to put him?"

"Interrogation room seems like our only choice." John answered. "He's a danger to himself and possibly others. No sharp objects, edges, and we can keep an eye on him through the window." Lestrade slowly nodded, watching the blank eyes of Oliver as he stared ahead into nothing.

"I'll get some rookies to prep a room." He walked off, leaving John and Sherlock to watch Oliver through his office window. Some time passed as they were silent, each lost to their own respective thoughts. John wondered how they were going to move Oliver to a different room, what objects he should be allowed to have in that room, and if relocation would close the door of Oliver's mind that John had just managed to pry open.

"I understand if you want to head home."

Sherlock broke the silence, causing John to flinch slightly as he was shaken from his contemplation. It took him a moment to realize what Sherlock said and process it, but even then John was confused.

"What?"

"To be with Rosie." Sherlock elaborated, still staring ahead through the window. "Because of your nightmare."

Flashes of the anguish in that nightmare rose to the surface of John's mind, forcing his eyes to close as if he were in physical pain. He swallowed, remembering shouting Rosie's name when he woke up. Rosie cried for half an hour after that, and it took both Sherlock and John to calm her down. A pang of guilt hit John as he realized that Sherlock had really been taking care of them both in the wake of John's nightmare.

John wondered if Sherlock knew he had been in his nightmare, too.

When John failed to respond Sherlock glanced over at him and frowned softly. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and looked away once again, continuing, "I apologize. I didn't mean to bring it back to your conscious mind."

"It's alright." John said softly in reply. "I'd rather stay here and help. From what Oliver said, I think there's more people that need our help."

Sherlock knew that John preferred to work through the aftermath of his nightmares, but last night had seemed particularly difficult for John to cope with and, admittedly, Sherlock was concerned about John's mental state. He didn't want to press too hard, though - that only caused John to frill like an angry hedgehog. He worried that John was now in a similar state because of what Sherlock proposed to him, and when John glanced over at Sherlock because the detective didn't offer any remarks after John's answer, John could see it in Sherlock's eyes. In reality, sometimes Sherlock was just a tall kid and John was the guardian who Sherlock didn't want to disappoint.

John offered Sherlock a small, appreciative smile, and Sherlock nodded slightly back at him, reassured that he had done something John deemed 'good'.

"I'm pleased that you want to stay." Sherlock confessed, avoiding John's eyes by looking at the window once again, that way he could still assess John's response in his reflection. As Sherlock expected, John was a bit surprised; he cocked an eyebrow and glanced over at Sherlock.

"It's not like you to admit such things." John murmured. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock had to suppress a smirk. _Ever the doctor._

"I'm not ill, if that's what you're wondering." Sherlock remarked. "The past few months have taught me many things, one of those being that it's best to say what I... _feel_ ," His nose scrunched up slightly at the idea of expressing his emotions, "in situations such as this. I've grown more aware that not even you, John, can read my mind."

"I could have told you that." John joked, smirking softly. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "In all seriousness, I appreciate this newfound revelation. In fact..." John paused, wondering whether to continue the sentence. It wasn't like John, either, to say aloud 'such things'. He could sense Sherlock cautiously glancing over at him. It took him a few seconds, but he made up his mind. "Ever since you returned, I've noticed a change in you."

Sherlock nodded softly, understanding. "My leaving changed me, I know. For better or for worse, however, I've not yet decided."

"For better." John immediately supplied. He swallowed, realizing what he just said and the mild shock in Sherlock's eyes. "I had considered saying that this morning, before Rosie needed my help." Both men pictured the event in their minds - Sherlock remembered the odd look in John's eyes, and John remembered the warmth in Sherlock's that hadn't been there years before.

"I could tell there was something you wanted to say," Sherlock said in a soft breath, still a bit in shock at John's confession, "but I didn't realize-"

"That I noticed the change?" John supplied, bracing himself for some sort of biting remark from Sherlock. "Or that-"

"John, you really must stop interrupting me."

John closed his mouth and nodded shortly. Sherlock took a calming breath.

"I didn't realize that you had considered my changing at great length."

John relaxed a little at what Sherlock said, though Sherlock could tell he was still bristling from sharing his emotions. "I'm... glad, that you think I've changed for the better. I hope to one day prove that."

 _You already have,_ John thought, but he kept his thoughts to himself. This wasn't the place or the time to share them, and John was already tired of sharing.

A few minutes later, Lestrade returned to tell them that the interrogation room was prepped and ready for Oliver to transfer over. John nodded, calmed down from the weighted discussion with Sherlock, and commanded that people make a path and only get involved if he asked them to. Reluctantly, the officers around him agreed to his terms.

John turned toward the door to Lestrade's office once more.


	4. Pocket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John uncover a lead from Oliver when John attempts to transfer him out of Lestrade's office and into a prepared interrogation room.

John turned the door handle of Lestrade's office and opened the door slowly. He peeked in, expecting Oliver to respond similarly to how he had before, but Oliver failed to notice him. It wasn't until John moved into the room and leaned over slightly to try to meet his gaze that Oliver focused on him. Oliver jumped, startled, but when he recognized John's face he let out a soft breath of relief.

"Hello, Oliver." John greeted, offering a small smile with the hope of reassuring him. "Do you know where you are?"

Oliver's brows furrowed and he blinked, eyes drifting over the walls and furniture of the office. John could tell he was thinking hard, struggling to remember. Either that, or he was struggling to hear through the noise of his mind. Hopefully the voices had quieted down by now, but John was by no means an expert on schizophrenia. The closest he got to understanding the disorder was his own instances with mental illness and what he learned over the course of his doctorate while studying at Bart's.

"I..." Oliver swallowed thickly, his eyes stopping at the window. He stared, and John glanced over to see that he was meeting Sherlock's steeled gaze.

"That's my friend Sherlock," John explained to Oliver. "He's here to help you."

"Help me?" Oliver whispered with an edge of worry to his tone. John motioned to Oliver's hands, which were gripping the arms of Lestrade's chair.

"He's a detective." John tried his best to explain in simple terms, unsure of how coherent Oliver was. "We're both here to help you. You're in Scotland Yard - did you know that?"

"I..." Oliver paused, his gaze falling from Sherlock's eyes to Lestrade's desk. John noticed that his grip was loosening on Lestrade's armchair. "I remember... running? Down the street. No, down an alley. Then down a street. I remember the police cars parked on the side of the building."

"Do you remember the name of the street you ran down?" John asked, and Oliver rubbed his temples with his index fingers, grimacing slightly. John immediately backpedaled, worried the young man had a brain injury or something similar. "Take your time. If you don't remember, don't force it. You seem coherent and I'd like to keep it that way."

Oliver nodded softly and relaxed, letting his legs fall from their position against his chest so he could sit normally in the armchair.

"Do you have a therapist, psychiatrist, anyone we can call for you? Are you on any medications?"

"Antipsychotics." Oliver said, for the first time with certainty. "Psychiatrist," he breathed, as if remembering something, "I have-" He shifted in the chair and felt for his back pocket, but realized something and looked down at his body. "What the...? My wallet's gone!"

"You told me earlier that someone took it from you." John supplied, hoping that would spark some sort of recognition. Oliver thought hard about it, trying to remember.

"There was..." Oliver licked his dry lips. "There was a house..? No, wait, it was a halfway house. I've been living there for..." Oliver paused then looked up at John, confessing with mild horror, "Christ, I have no idea what day it is."

"Give it time." John stepped closer and reached his hand out to Oliver carefully. "For now, I've got to move you to an interrogation room so a friend of mine can have his office back. I'd like to assess you for any injuries, if that's alright with you."

Oliver eyed his hand and cautiously took it, standing up. John smiled softly at him, let Oliver's hand go, and gingerly put a hand on his shoulder to steady Oliver as he led him out of the office. When Oliver saw the small group of officers standing just outside the office, he stopped and stared wide-eyed at them, stepping backwards into John. John gripped his shoulder firmly, his free hand reaching up to Oliver's elbow instinctively in case he tried to run away.

"It's okay, they're here just in case I need help." John reassured, patting his shoulder gently. John gave the officers a pointed look and they each took a step back. The smarter ones took an extra two steps. "While we walk, why don't you tell me about your psychiatrist? I'm sure one of these officers will gladly contact them for you."

"Uh-" Oliver stuttered out a breath and swallowed, staring at the officers around him, "Um. S-Stone. Her name is Malia Stone." A female officer pulled out a pad of paper from her pocket and a pen and wrote down the name. Nervously, Oliver added, "I-I don't know her number by heart, she works at the recovery house-"

"It's quite alright, Oliver." John reassured. "We can look it up, don't worry. Focus on keeping calm, we'll worry about the logistics."

"S-Sorry, I get anxious without my meds." Oliver sheepishly apologized.

"It's alright. You've got every right to be anxious in a situation like this. We'll get your medications for you as soon as we can, I promise. First, though, there are some questions that we-" John looked over at Sherlock, "-need to ask you so we can start looking into your case."

Oliver nodded, seeming a bit more trusting, and a couple officers escorted Sherlock, John, and Oliver to the prepared interrogation room.


	5. Full Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A coherent Oliver answers Sherlock's questions, and John discovers some shocking things when giving Oliver a medical examination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning here. If the word "rape" triggers you, you should probably stop reading. There will be no graphic details involving it, though, so if the word itself doesn't bother you, then you should be good.

"Now that the tedious questions are over with," Sherlock said as the two officers that had been gathering Oliver's personal information left the interrogation room, "I'd like to ask you a few of my own."

"A-Alright." Oliver stuttered, glancing over at John nervously. John nodded slightly, trying to reassure the young man. He stood with his back against the wall, a few feet away from the door, while Sherlock towered over Oliver and the table the young man was sat at. Sherlock rested his arms in the crook of his back.

"What do you remember of your route to the Yard?"

Oliver looked down at the wooden table and thought hard, his eyebrows furrowing. "I remember an alley and a street..."

"Do you remember making any turns?" John supplied, and after a moment Oliver shook his head. He quickly met Sherlock's gaze and added,

"A-At least, none I r-remember."

"Really, Oliver, it's fine." John answered for Sherlock, noticing the 'I'm-not-sure-what-to-do' look in his eyes. "You're likely suffering from post-traumatic amnesia. You're going to not remember a lot of what we ask you, and that's completely normal. Whatever you do remember will be helpful, but don't push it."

"What you don't remember will be equally as helpful, too." Sherlock added, earning a confused look from Oliver. "What's the last memory you remember before running here?"

"Uh..." Oliver rubbed his hands over the knees of his sweatpants. "W-We had a meeting. A support group meeting. Doctor Stone's assistant led it, her name's Isabelle. She's really sweet - she makes sure Lane gets his chair and she helps calm Audrey when she has a panic attack."

"And who are these people?" Sherlock pried.

"Oh, uh. Lane has OCD and depression, and Audrey has a panic disorder 'cause of her social phobia." Oliver explained, seeming to calm slightly at mentioning the other residents.

"This meeting," Sherlock continued, watching Oliver closely, "was there anything unusual about it?"

"Not really..." Oliver frowned somewhat, wrapping his arms around his torso. "We talked about our plans for the day, what we ate for breakfast - Lizzy, she's got anorexia, and she ate something for the first time in two days so we each took turns praising her for it. Then we spent the rest of the day doing activities, therapies, and eating meals, I think. Though..." Oliver tilted his head slightly, realizing something peculiar. "I don't remember going to sleep in my room that night."

"Is that odd?" John asked, sensing something shifting in Oliver.

"Matthew - I mean, one of the voices I hear, h-his name is Matthew - I have a ritual I have to do before I can sleep, and if I don't he keeps talking until I do."

"Do you remember if you've slept at all since the meeting?" John asked, a tinge of worry to his voice. Oliver stared blankly at the plain table in front of him for a long moment, then slowly shook his head.

"When do you have your support group?" Sherlock asked next, and Oliver blinked and looked up at Sherlock.

"Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, at least for me." Oliver replied, and John breathed a bit easier. It had only been at the most a day since the meeting, then. "Everyone has a tailored schedule, though."

"Do you remember everyone who was in your group with you?" Sherlock pried, glancing at John. John nodded and pulled out a pad and a pen from his breast pocket of his coat.

"Well, there was Lane and Audrey, of course. Plus Isabelle, Doctor Stone's assistant. Lizzy, the anorexic girl." Oliver leaned back in his plastic chair and stared up at the ceiling. He mumbled through the list of names again and licked his lips in concentration. "Um... I think that's it? There might have been an orderly there, but I'm not sure."

"It's a start if nothing else." Sherlock replied in a hum, watching as John finished writing down the list of first names and whether they were a patient or a carer. "Doctor Watson, would you like to carry out your medical examination?"

John finished the last letter and nodded, clicking his pen and folding his paper pad before tucking them back into his pocket. Sherlock walked toward the door and John looked up, saying abruptly, "Oh, Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed and put his hand on the door handle before glancing over at John.

"If you can find any, or if you can find someone who knows where they are, can you get a pillow and a couple blankets for Oliver?" John opened his mouth to continue explaining, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Of course. I'm sure one of Lestrade's lackies isn't too busy." Typically, if the average person had replied to John in such a way, John would have thought they were being sarcastic. However, knowing Sherlock and his disdain for the majority of the Yarders, John knew that Sherlock was being truthful. At least, what he considered to be the truth.

John said a quick thank you and turned to face Oliver, directing him to lay his arm on the armrest when Sherlock opened the door and walked out, closing it behind him. He pondered Oliver's timeline of events as he demanded one of the officers that had led him to the interrogation room to fetch the pillow and blankets. He was about to return to watch through the one-way window of the interrogation room when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked down at it, scowling with mild disdain when he saw who the sender of the text was.

_While you're at NSY, tell D.I. Lestrade that I "fixed" the blunder in the news. -MH_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He considered for a moment telling Mycroft to 'fuck off', then considered forwarding the message to Lestrade, but after a few moments of typing and deleting, Sherlock settled on responding with,

_Not my problem. Tell him yourself. -SH_

The reply was almost immediate.

_I'm busy. -MH_

_Don't care. On a case, so unless you feel like being useful, don't bother me. -SH_

Sherlock huffed in annoyance and walked toward the room again. It was about a five minute walk past cubicles and offices, but even then Sherlock only got halfway there before his phone buzzed again. He groaned in frustration and yanked his phone out of his pocket.

_One name for a home address or place of work, nothing more. -MH_

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

_I'll get back to you with a name. Consider my part obliged. -SH_

Sherlock quickly forwarded the initial message to Lestrade, receiving a message from Mycroft in the process.

_Ta, brother mine. -MH_

He ignored the message and finally reached his destination after a couple more minutes of walking. When he arrived, he found John standing outside with his arms folded. Judging by the look of John's face, he must have found something worrying, perhaps immoral. Sherlock approached him, and when John met his gaze, Sherlock gave him a questioning look.

"Well, I figured out what the traumatic event, was." John sighed, his jaw clenching. Sherlock frowned and looked through the one-way mirror into the interrogation room. There were two officers talking to Oliver, who seemed surprisingly calm considering John wasn't in the room, and a plastic kit was left on the table. Sherlock understood from the officers' body language what John had found just as John spoke.

"The poor kid was raped."


	6. Posies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John leave New Scotland Yard and head out to follow Oliver's path back to where he escaped from.

The officers finished explaining the process of the rape kit to Oliver and answered his questions, then prepared him to be taken by police car to the nearest hospital to have the kit done. As they did so, John explained to Sherlock what he found, how he found it, and how Oliver reacted. Oliver had been nervous when John left to fetch the nearest officer, but a bit of back-and-forth conversation between officer and victim with John present seemed to help Oliver come to subconsciously understand that he was being helped.

"He's taking this a lot better than most." John said with timid optimism.

"But why?" Sherlock hummed, finishing John's thought. John sighed. "Come along, John. We've got somewhere to be."

Sherlock turned around and walked off, and John followed behind him. Sherlock texted  Lestrade as he walked, expertly maneuvering around walking officers and cubicles.

_Following victim's path to source. -SH_

_10-4. When you exit head left. Talking with Dr. Stone.  
_

_Text Mycroft a name of a suspect. He will pull up info. -SH_

As they exited the building Sherlock's phone buzzed, but he ignored it, assuming it was Lestrade who was messaging him.

John and Sherlock walked down the street toward the direction Oliver and the officers had said he had come from, glancing down alleyways for anything suspicious and studying building fronts for mentions of a halfway house. After about twenty minutes of walking, they saw a minimalist sign with _Dr. Malia Stone_ as the practicing psychiatrist listed beneath the name of the three-story building. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked down the alley next to the building. Oliver's story was valid, so far.

"Let's search afterwards," John murmured to Sherlock. "The longer it's been since Oliver went 'missing', the longer the criminal has to get away."

"You go." Sherlock waved a hand as if to bat the idea away. "Testimonies are weak, people are liars, and besides," Sherlock started to walk down the alley at a slow pace, scanning the ground and walls for abnormalities, "you're better with people anyways."

"I can't read them like you can." John reminded Sherlock blatantly, rolling his eyes. Sherlock stopped walking but he didn't stop searching. "Look, I'll question whoever is at reception while you're doing this, but don't expect any more than five minutes."

"You could always flirt," Sherlock absently suggested, moving further down the alley. "Although the idea of entering the building while you've been shagging the receptionist-"

"God, stop talking." John shuddered and walked off, flustered and disgusted by the mental image in his mind. He missed the mischievous smirk on Sherlock's face, whom was pleased that he got his doctor to finally leave him unattended to search for evidence. Admittedly, Sherlock had to suppress his own disgust at the concept as well.

John stopped at the entrance and rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the flustered nerves, then opened the wood-and-glass door that looked more like it belonged to a moderately decent house than a business. A bell chimed as John walked into a small waiting room, the floor a warm-colored wood and the walls covered with blended hues of blue in an ombre effect, the darkest blue being at the bottom. In front of a wall opposite the entrance was a wooden desk with a computer monitor, keyboard, mouse, and various administrative writing supplies. A young woman in pink pastel scrubs sat at the desk, typing something on the computer in front of her. Her hair was pulled up into a bun on the back of her head and perched on her nose was a pair of black-rimmed prescription glasses.

She looked up when John entered and smiled politely, although with a hint of confusion. John walked forward as she asked with a warm, welcoming voice, "Hello, sir. What can I help you with today?"

"I'm here about a patient," John started, watching her face as he spoke, "Oliver?"

 _"Oliver?"_ She repeated, her eyes widening a bit. "Are you police?"

"I work alongside them." John told the half-truth and glanced at the unmarked door to his left, likely leading to the rest of the building. Before John could continue, the woman breathed,

"Then you found him, right?" John narrowed his eyes at her, tilting his head slightly. "W-We called them about two hours ago because we couldn't find him anywhere!"

"We?" John repeated. The woman gestured to the door John had been looking at moments before and started to stand.

"The orderlies and I - oh, I'm Isabelle, Dr. Stone's assistant, by the way - we searched the whole building!" She walked quickly over to the door. "I've got to tell Dr. Stone. I'm sure you'll want to talk to her-"

"Wait." John stopped her, putting up a hand and stepping in front of the door. "I'd like to talk to just you first, if that's alright? Oliver mentioned you by name."

"Oh. Why yes, that's fine." She nodded and gestured to the living chairs in the center of the room. She moved past John to go sit down, and John sat down across from her. "Oliver's okay, right?"

John's lips tightened into a line. "Yes and no." Isabelle's face sunk somewhat. "He's alive, but..." John paused, took a breath, then explained what had happened when Oliver showed up at Scotland Yard. Isabelle put a hand over her mouth and listened to every word intently. John could tell when he told Isabelle about Oliver's description of how he got to the Yard and John's medical findings that Isabelle was trying not to let a few tears fall.

"Poor Ollie." She finally breathed, removing her hand from her face. The front door opened and the bell chimed, causing John and Isabelle to glance over. Isabelle continued, correctly thinking that the tall pale man that entered was with the kind doctor informing her about Oliver. "I've no idea where he got out, we checked everywhere."

"The basement." Sherlock answered plainly, walking over to sit down in the chair next to John.

"What?" She breathed, brows furrowing. "But only staff can get in. The door has a passcode."

"Who knows the passcode?" Sherlock questioned, studying the woman as she talked.

"Uh, well, there's me, of course."

_Motherly type. Younger siblings?_

"There's also Dr. Stone..."

_Bracelet on her left wrist. Made by her. No, **for** her._

"... but she sends me, usually. It's kind of part of the job description as her assistant."

_Intelligent, compassionate, and genuine._

"The orderlies know the code, too."

_Close to patients. Knows who the criminal is?_

"I can write a list of names, if you want." Isabelle glanced between John and the unfamiliar figure next to him, wondering why the man was looking her over with darting eyes.

_No. She's closer to her patients than to her coworkers.  
_

"Yes, please-"

"Are you friends with your patients?" Sherlock interrupted John, who looked at him curiously. Isabelle smiled sheepishly.

"They're not _my_ patients, really." She toyed with the bracelet on her left wrist. "But yes, I'd say so. I spend a lot of time leading group activities and discussion sessions. We grow close with how much time we spend together."

"Do you know if anyone here doesn't like him?" John asked, keeping his voice low and soft.

"Or perhaps likes him too much?" Sherlock added. John shot him a warning look as Isabelle looked down at her hands on her lap. Sherlock met his gaze and rolled his eyes, focusing on Isabelle again as she looked back up.

"Oliver can be... _difficult,_ to handle." Isabelle answered after a moment. "From what you described, Doctor Watson, you experienced one of Oliver's episodes at the Yard?" John nodded. "I'm glad you were there for him, but for us this isn't something all too surprising when it comes to Oliver. That's why the orderlies sometimes aren't as..."

"Patient?" Sherlock finished for her. Isabelle glanced over at him and solemnly nodded.

"I don't know a few of them well," she continued, starting to stand up, "but I can tell you who it couldn't have been. I was with them last night." Isabelle walked over to the reception desk, grabbed a notepad, and begun to write. John slowly stood and walked over to join her while Sherlock surveyed the waiting room. It was clean and oddly homely. Light dust covered the magazines left sitting on an end table next to Sherlock's chair. If Isabelle was being truthful about how defensive and paranoid Oliver could be during an episode, then he certainly didn't go through this room on his way out. Nothing seemed disturbed or out of place.

Sherlock was fairly sure he had the case solved by this point, but he wondered where the fun was in leaving Lestrade to find the criminal when the case was mildly interesting? So, he sat quietly and pondered the information he'd found outside while Isabelle wrote down a list of names for John.

"Do you know him?"

Sherlock heard Isabelle whispering to John but managed to keep still, staring off into space like he had been seconds before but listening in on their conversation.

"Yes, yes I do."

"Who is he?"

"Sherlock Holmes." There was a pause. "He's a consulting detective." Another pause. "He solves the crimes that the police can't. I'm his doctor."

"'His doctor'?" Isabelle repeated then lowered her voice. Sherlock could hear the floor creak slightly as she shifted closer to whisper to John. "As in _his_ doctor, or as in his _doctor_?"

 _Are they not the same thing?_ Sherlock wondered.

"Oh, uh-" John stammered. Sherlock could feel John's eyes on the back of his head. Did he know that Sherlock was listening? Why was he nervous? "The latter, if I understand you correctly. He solves crimes, inevitably gets injured, and I stitch him back together. He asks me for my medical opinion on occasion, but typically I chase him around London and wrap a wound when I can."

"That's very kind of you."

Sherlock's eyebrows creased just slightly at the tone of Isabelle's voice. He was never good with identifying emotions, but he could swear that before Isabelle spoke he heard Isabelle giggle and whisper 'aw' under hear breath. Did she find John quite literally stitching Sherlock's skin back together _sentimental_? And people called Sherlock odd.

"Well, it's reassuring to have you two on the case." She said at a normal volume. Sherlock slowly stood and looked at John, noticing an odd pinkish hue to his face. Isabelle smiled at both of them. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Ah, yes," Sherlock answered before John could deny the offer, "I'd like to investigate the basement."


	7. Ashes, Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock start their investigation of the halfway house's basement, trying to find the window Oliver had escaped from.

"A couple of people have been down here since Oliver went missing, but that was after we reported it to Scotland Yard." Isabelle told the duo as she led the way down the stairs. Sherlock followed behind her and bringing up the rear was John, preemptively grimacing at the knowledge of his bad leg having to make the climb back up in a little while. When they reached the bottom landing Isabelle swiped her name tag and a small light next to the console turned green. She opened the door, flicked a light switch on the wall, and gestured for the two men to enter.

"This is where we keep the patients' belongings that can't stay with them in their room." She gestured to the shelves sticking out from the wall beside the door. "Mostly sharp things, metal, anything they could use to harm themselves or others."

"And this door?" Sherlock murmured, staring at a padlocked metal door painted a light blue.

"That's where we store the medicine." Isabelle answered. "If you've got any questions, I'll be upstairs checking on the patients. They're about to leave lunch right now."

Isabelle quietly left and John glanced around. He sighed and said, "Speaking of lunch-"

"You'll eat something soon, dear Watson." Sherlock interrupted, busily looking over the walls and shelving units. "First, however, we must find where Oliver escaped from."

As if remembering a question he meant to ask, John blurted, "Oh, how did you know he escaped from the basement?"

"Glass in the alley." Sherlock hummed then clenched his jaw. "There was a window, small but big enough to crawl out of if he had something to climb up onto to reach it. I couldn't see the room clearly. Far too dark. Do you notice something, John?" Sherlock was speaking quickly, clearly excited, so John had to process what Sherlock had asked for a few seconds before he could think of an answer.

"There's no shattered window?" John tried. Sherlock grinned at him, something genuine and powerful that made John feel proud of himself.

"Exactly." Sherlock pointed at the walls of the basement, "and this basement is smaller than the building it is on top of. It's not unheard of, but-"

"Why have another window if there's no room?" John questioned and Sherlock glanced at him.

"Search the walls and the floor. There has to be a way in somewhere."

They started at opposite sides of the room and worked their way around, feeling the walls and looking for scuff marks on the floor. Sherlock tapped on the walls every two steps to check for a hollow sound where insulation was removed to make an entrance.

They searched for an hour, going over the same spots multiple times, and came up with nothing. Frustrated, Sherlock growled and stood in the center of the room, glaring as he looked at the walls from afar.

"They couldn't have used the window outside to get in." John commented, holding out his phone with its light on to shine on the darkest corner.

"No, definitely not." Sherlock agreed, murmuring absently. "The rapist wants it all to be easy. Easy prey, easy job, easy entrance. We just have to find out where he's put it."

"Wouldn't they notice if the basement was smaller than usual?" John questioned, wincing slightly as he stood up straight again. "I mean, they'd certainly notice if someone was building down here, right?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up with a realization. "You're absolutely correct, John. They would." He turned and grinned at John. "Which means the modification was made while the building was being constructed."

"You said the rapist wants it easy," John countered, walking over, "paying to have a secret room built before he's even got the job-"

"Who says it's secret?" Sherlock countered. John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock looked away at something. John followed his eyes and realized what Sherlock was referring to.

The blue metal door.


	8. We

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock continue to investigate the basement when they run into a slight problem.

"I'll go get Isabelle," John offered, moving toward the open basement door, "She must have a key."

"No need."

Sherlock moved over to the door and fished something out of his pocket, kneeling down by the padlock around two thick metal loops: one bolted to the door and one bolted to the concrete wall. He tilted the padlock up so he could see the keyhole and stuck a thin piece of metal inside. Within a minute the lock was picked and the padlock slipped off easily.

"When did you learn to lockpick?" John questioned, moving over to join him at the door.

"I learned as a child, but I assume you mean when did I learn to lockpick _efficiently_." Sherlock immediately replied. "That would be while I was dismantling Moriarty's organization. When your life depends on how fast you move you learn to do things quicker, as I'm sure you're personally aware. You know, being a soldier and all." He opened the door and glanced at John, being met with an odd look. Suddenly Sherlock remembered that he had never told John about _where_ he'd gone and what had happened after The Fall.

"Your life was in danger?" John asked softly. "I mean, of course it was, but-"

"I know what you mean to say." Sherlock opened the door and walked in, leaving it open for John. "At least, I think I do. As you know I'm not good at identifying emotions."

There was a few seconds of pause before John said, "You got injured, didn't you?"

Sherlock stopped walking. He heard John take a few steps toward him.

"That's why you started using again when you came back. You started doing reckless things, like picking fights and letting yourself waste away on cocaine. Sherlock Holmes realized he was a mere mortal and it scared him."

"I've been injured plenty of times before, John." Sherlock countered, staring daggers at John as he turned. "That wasn't why I started-"

"So it was pretty bad, wasn't it?" John was staring into his soul, searching for something. Sherlock wasn't sure what John was looking for, as that concerned him. It also frustrated him. "How bad was it, Sherlock?"

"This isn't the time, John." Sherlock said with a clenched jaw. "Now start look-"

The sound of a door opening cut Sherlock's sentence off. He turned on his heels just as a man dressed in scrubs walked around a large free-standing glass cabinet of white plastic bottles. The man froze, staring at Sherlock and John with wide eyes. In a panic he dashed back the way he had come, and Sherlock followed him just as quickly around the corner of the cabinet.

"Sherlock-" John breathed, running after the two. He followed around the corner of the cabinet and threw an open door at the back of the room, blinking a couple times at the harsh white color of the room. Once his eyes focused, John noticed Sherlock yanking the man back in by his trousers' leg from the broken window he was trying to escape out of. John rushed over and grabbed the man's ankle and, with a frustrated shout and adrenaline-fueled strength, helped Sherlock yank the man back in. The man cursed and fell onto the white tiled floor with a hard thud, splatters of blood landing next to him. A bloody hand print was left when he went to stand up.

Sherlock was in the middle of sending the code word to Lestrade from his phone while John watched the suspect, gun drawn and pointed at him.

"Don't. Move." John growled, staring down the man. He was in his thirties, maybe young forties, with balding brown hair and green eyes.

"You won't shoot." The man heaved out, grinning madly. How he was qualified to care for the mentally ill, John wasn't sure. He looked quite literally mad.

"Try me." John shot back.

For once, it was John who made the mistake of challenging someone and not Sherlock.

"Alright."

It happened in so quickly that John reacted on instinct. The man threw something at him and John dodged, noticing for a moment that it was something metal and sharp, and John aimed for the man's hip and fired. The gunshot filled the room, bouncing off the walls and tiled floor in a disorientating sound. The man screamed and fell, blood splattering all over the floor behind him. He held his hip and sobbed with pain - he wasn't going to move any time soon, John was sure.

"John...?"

John's blood ran cold. He turned and saw the confused face of Sherlock staring at him with wide eyes. Blood was starting to stain his coat on his left side, right below his ribs, where the handle of something was poking out.

"No-" John whispered and rushed over, setting his gun down on the floor beside Sherlock as Sherlock stepped back and leaned against the wall, clutching his side. John recognized the handle as a scalpel and he breathed a bit easier. It could be bad, but it definitely could've been worse.

"You're going to be okay," John reassured Sherlock calmly, completely in Doctor Watson mode now. Sherlock idly thought that is was impressive how easily he could switch from soldier to doctor. "Move your hand, let me look."

Sherlock complied, shaking slightly from the shock that was slowly setting in. Looking down, he watched John carefully pull the edge of his coat back to look at where the blade lodged itself into the left side of Sherlock's abdomen. He could feel his legs begin to shake. Judging by the length of the average scalpel and the length of the exposed handle-

John sighed heavily, breaking Sherlock's concentration, "Thank god - You're going to be okay." John lowered the edge of Sherlock's coat and pressed his hand around the blade where Sherlock's hand had been. "It didn't hit anything important. You're going to be just fine."

Sherlock swallowed. Why was this so different from the last time he'd been this injured? It was far better than the torture in Syria, so why was he getting emotional about _this_ of all things? It made no logical sense.

"Sherlock, _breathe._ " John reminded him. "Focus on me, okay? It's just shock, you're not dying. I'm not going to let you die, not again."

There was a pause in Sherlock's brain as he followed John's orders, taking in a breath. As he exhaled, he repeated in a barely audible whisper, "'Again'?"

John glanced behind him at the suspect, checking that he hadn't moved or grabbed anything. He couldn't hear Sherlock over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. "I need you to keep pressure on it, okay? Do you think you can do that for me?" Sherlock held back a scoff at the idea of him being unable to do such a simple task for John, and instead he nodded. "Okay, good. I'm going to make sure that bastard doesn't move. If you need to sit down, just say my name and I'll run over, but try to stay standing and don't jostle the handle." Sherlock nodded again, watching John take his right hand and replace it with his own hand around the scalpel handle. Sherlock winced but did as he was told, numbly watching John rush over to the suspect and pat him down, looking for more concealed weapons.

"You bastard," The suspect growled when John patted his scrubs and unclipped his I.D. from his uniform. "You shot me!"

"I'd do it again, too." John glared at him, stood up, and tucked the I.D. into his jeans pocket. With a moment to spare he chose to text Lestrade the code word for whenever Sherlock (or John himself) needed medical services that John couldn't handle purely with first aid.

_MEDIC -JW_

John quickly searched the room and, thankfully, by the time he was glancing around hoping to find something to bound the man with, he could hear sirens in the distance. He looked over at Sherlock, glanced down at the man who was pale from blood loss, and jogged past him and over to Sherlock. The man wasn't going to get anywhere anytime soon, John reasoned. Besides, Sherlock was more important.

"How are you doing?" He asked, putting his hand on top of Sherlock's on his side. Sherlock swallowed and John tried not to think about how oddly intimate the situation was.

"Shock is gone." Sherlock replied. "Pain in tolerable, but moving is going to be difficult." John nodded, already knowing this, and looked around, hoping to see a chair. He saw a white table covered in scratch marks - Christ, they look like fingernail scratches - but not much else.

"Lean on me, okay?" John moved to Sherlock's injured side. "I can't carry you, but-"

"I'll hurt you," Sherlock interrupted, trying to pull away the arm that John was trying to wrap around his shoulders.

"Shut the hell up and do it," John growled, overpowering Sherlock and holding his arm taught around his shoulders. Sherlock was much taller, which made it difficult, but Sherlock knew the soldier wasn't going to give up so he complied, leaning into John. John guided them out of the room, and they'd just reached the basement door when they heard shouting upstairs.

"Down here!" John thundered up the stairwell. "We need a medic!"

"Medic, John?" Sherlock hissed. "This is hardly Afghanistan."

"Oh fuck off." John huffed without venom in his voice, suppressing a smirk that Sherlock still managed to see. Sherlock's joking tone calmed them both, at least before John had to struggle to get Sherlock up the stairs. It took some cursing, shouting, and heavy lifting, but eventually they made it to the top.

Lestrade panted heavily as he rushed over. When he noticed Sherlock clutching his side and John supporting Sherlock's weight, he cursed under his breath.

"Got your text, what-"

"Perps downstairs," John cut him off quickly, fishing out the suspect's I.D. from his jeans pocket and handing it to Lestrade. "Shot 'em. He's bleeding out."

"Uh, okay-" Lestrade grabbed his walkie talkie and spat some numbers into it as he went down the stairs the duo had just come up, getting a response of similar numbers back. John recognized them, but admittedly he was too focused on Sherlock to decode them. His subconscious supplied that it was probably something about serious injuries, but John dismissed it just as quickly as the thought came. He guided Sherlock over to a plastic chair and sat him down gently, whispering to him to take it easy and relax. Sherlock's injury was the only injury he cared about.

Within a minute two men carrying duffel bags ran down the stairs near where Sherlock was sat, leaning back to take pressure off the blade in his side, and one stopped next to Sherlock. Lestrade led the second down to the basement.


	9. All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns home after visiting the emergency room to get stitched up, and he has a heart-to-heart with John on the couch.

"One day I'll have to lop your legs off at the knee to make you short enough for me to carry."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. John helped Sherlock out of the cab, tossing the fare into the passenger seat, then led Sherlock up to the front door of 221b Baker Street. John opened the door and Sherlock carefully walked up the couple steps and through the door. It was much easier to go up stairs now that he had morphine coursing through his system and the stab wound was cleaned up and stitched neatly. His stitches were incessantly itchy, though.

"Just because you're doped up doesn't mean you're invincible, Holmes." John chided him as they ascended the stairs. Sherlock wasn't exactly sure when they had started the climb, but judging by their speed and John's nagging it had likely been no more than a minute ago. Their coats were gone as well. How had he not noticed John taking his coat off? Morphine was certainly an annoying, but effective, opiate.

John snorted, bringing Sherlock back into the present again. "You are certainly high, aren't you?" He teased. Sherlock glared at him and John smirked. "Hey, I've got grounds to say it. I know what a morphine high is like."

Sherlock grunted dismissively and John chuckled, guiding him through the flat. A few of Rosie's toys lay out on the floor, and they acted as landmines that Sherlock had to navigate with wobbly feet on his way to the couch. John kicked them gently out of his path as they went. Soon Sherlock turned and John eased him down onto the couch, keeping Sherlock from flopping onto it like he typically would.

"Think you can take your button-up off?" John asked, watching Sherlock kick his shoes off his heels and shake them off his long feet, hitting the floor with a soft thud. "I'd like to wrap your stitches with some gauze. It should help with the irritation."

"John, I can barely walk straight." Sherlock countered. "You're wondering if I can utilize fine motor control?"

"I was making sure." John corrected, giving Sherlock a look. "You get testy when someone tries to help you."

Sherlock snorted. "You say that like _you_ don't."

John paused. "Touche, I suppose." John leaned down slightly and started to unbutton Sherlock's poor white button up from the top button at his sternum. Sherlock stilled, unsure of how to act in such a situation. His cheeks heated up in mild embarrassment. Why was he having this reaction now when numerable nurses and doctors had unbuttoned his shirt before?

Sherlock, deep down, knew why. It was because John was close to him. He didn't know why his heart raced when John was near, but it did and it always had.

"Sherlock..." John whispered with a small smirk at the corner of his lips, eyebrows furrowed. Sherlock blinked and met his eyes. "Are you... blushing?"

Sherlock's eyes went wide and he felt his cheek with his hand, horrified to find that John was correct. He was blushing, and undoubtedly it was worse now that John had pointed it out. Sherlock looked away and avoided John's eyes, burning up under his intense stare.

"There's no need to be bashful, mate." John continued undoing the last few buttons. "You're in good company. No one is going to judge. Not that there's anything _to_ judge." After a moment John realized what he said and swallowed slightly. "I mean, you're a healthy weight, and you don't have any bad scarring, you know?"

There was a shift in Sherlock's mood at the mention of scars, and John's face fell. The blushing red was quickly fading, replaced with Sherlock's jaw clenching instead. John parted his mouth, unsure of what to say as the realization came to him.

"What happened, Sherlock?" John whispered, moving to sit down on the couch next to his friend. He glanced down at Sherlock's hands tensing around Sherlock's kneecaps, then slowly looked up to study Sherlock's profile. "Where is...?"

John's sentence trailed off, but Sherlock knew what he was asking. They both knew that John, if given the chance, could deduce what had caused Sherlock's scars. They were distinctive, unique to the shape of a whip's lashing strike. Sherlock wondered if he could stall, somehow, but he knew John wouldn't let him even try, now. Besides, he would see the scars as soon as Sherlock's shirt was off.

Sherlock had to use all his willpower to tug on his arm sleeve, a simple gesture that he knew John would interpret correctly. John hesitated, looking at Sherlock questioningly, and when Sherlock didn't change his mind John stood up and helped Sherlock pull his arms out of his sleeves. The cloth fell between Sherlock's back and the couch, and Sherlock swallowed thickly, his heart beating harder. He sat up a bit straighter when John pulled the shirt out from behind him.

His heart stilled when John sat back down and leaned closer to Sherlock. John let out a soft gasp of horror and Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed, his whole body tensing with anxiety. Why did he care so much about what John thought of him? Why did he care about John seeing his scars, seeing his body? It was stupid, stupid stupid-

"Christ." John finally whispered in a ghost of a breath. Sherlock could feel it roll across the nerves under the healthy patches of skin on his back. "When did this happen?"

"Just before I came back." Sherlock whispered softly. The tender nervousness startled John. He'd never heard Sherlock sound so utterly rattled. "It was in Syria."

"Jesus, Sherlock..." John reached out and gently pushed on Sherlock's shoulder, making him lean back against the couch. "The bastard's dead, right?"

"I don't know." Sherlock replied, this time a bit easier. "Mycroft paid my way out and sent me home. I didn't care enough to ask at that point if he bombed the place or what. I was just ready to come home and have everything back to how it was supposed to be."

John sighed heavily, a tinge of a growl at the end of it, and Sherlock cautiously glanced over. John was utterly furious, jaw clenched and glaring across the room at the unlit fireplace.

"If you ever see that man," John fumed, "just point him out to me."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John, bemused and oddly flattered, then leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling. They were silent for a long while, the flat silent thanks to Ms. Hudson taking Rosie out for a bit of lunchtime shopping. At the news of Sherlock's injury, Ms. Hudson offered to make an early dinner for everyone and to have Rosie out of the flat for a while as Sherlock got settled in. John couldn't thank whatever omnipresent being there was enough for the absolute saint that Ms. Hudson was.

"This is much better." Sherlock hummed. John looked over, seeing his lanky flatmate slouching against the back of the couch with his head propped on top of the couch cushion.

"I would hope so," John replied, thinking that Sherlock meant this situation was better compared to the situation they had been in a few hours earlier.

"I could leave the stab would," Sherlock let out a content sigh, mumbling, "but otherwise this is how it was supposed to be."

"Oh?" John prompted, confused and curious. "How what was supposed to be?"

"Coming home." Sherlock answered. "After all that misery for two years, I was ready to come home here, to you, and lounge on this sofa in peaceful silence."

John's heart thudded loudly at the idea of Sherlock considering 'coming home' to be coming back to him, to John. Back to 221b Baker Street, in all its eccentric, messy glory, where Sherlock's things and John's things mashed together until neither was ever really sure who brought what into the apartment (except the experimental equipment). He didn't know what to say, but he knew that Sherlock saying _to you_ made his heart race like it had when John and Mary had their first date.

Like a sickness his nightmare came back to the forefront of his mind and he closed his eyes, leaning back against the couch. Before he could stop himself, before he could calm down and try to forget, the words left his lips.

"I know what you mean." John's pulse jumped, hearing Sherlock shift slightly next to him. He was looking at John, wasn't he? "My nightmare last night... You were in it, too."

There was a slight pause. Sherlock whispered cautiously, "I was?" John swallowed and nodded.

"I dreamed that I was back in Afghanistan, in the middle of a firefight." John admitted. "I guess I thought of you and Rosie at some point because suddenly you both were there in the middle of all that mess and... Fucking hell." John wiped his face with his hands, trying to wipe away the tears before they even had the chance to form.

Sherlock looked at John softly, his heart aching. John didn't have to finish explaining his dream for Sherlock to understand what had happened to them both. It explained why John was shell-shocked when they sat out here in the living room that night with Rosie, calming her down. Sherlock had incorrectly assumed that the subject of his dream had been Rosie, not both Rosie and Sherlock. Now that he understood, he felt the urge to comfort John somehow. Admittedly, that surprised Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't known to be a comforting personality, yet he was willing to try and likely fail if it meant that John would be comforted.

He thought back to the last time John had confessed something so personal - his emotional affair on Mary and the debilitating guilt that came with it. When he had started to cry then, Sherlock pulled him close and hugged him as he sobbed. He was in no state to attempt to recreate the scene for John now, especially since it would be rather illogical to both stand up just for a hug, so Sherlock contemplated what John would do for him in this situation.

"It felt like losing Mary all over again." John confessed in a whisper. Sherlock's eyes refocused and he saw that John had moved slightly. His hands rested on his thighs and he stared solemnly across the room. "Somehow... it was worse."

There was a short pause of silence before Sherlock cautiously asked, "What did you mean when you said 'again'?"

"What?" John prompted, confused. Sherlock knew what it had been like when John lost Mary, so John didn't understand what Sherlock meant.

"When you were treating me," Sherlock reminded him, "you said 'I won't let you die, not again'. What did you mean by 'again'?"

Oh.

John swallowed. "I meant... when Mary shot you."

The scene played out in Sherlock's mind; he remembered the hot, piercing pain of the bullet, the struggle to fight his way back to life inside his Mind Palace, and waking up groggily on the operating table.

"You can try and vouch for her aim all you want," John said defensively, "but... you flat-lined, Sherlock. _She killed you._ Had I been just a second late..." John turned his head, hiding his face from Sherlock. "I did everything I could, and when it mattered the most, it still wasn't enough."

"I'm still alive, am I not?" Sherlock countered softly, trying to lean and catch a glimpse of John's face but grimacing with pain. _When it mattered the most?_

"And now you and Ms. Hudson are taking care of my child because her father isn't strong enough." John scowled, starting to shake with emotion. "Isn't _good_ enough."

"John-"

"Why the hell do I try-"

" _John_." Sherlock said forcefully, reaching across John to grab his farthest shoulder to try and turn his torso to face Sherlock. John looked down and closed his eyes, letting Sherlock man-handle him. He tried not to think about the comforting warmth that followed Sherlock's touch, or that Sherlock didn't pull his hand away once John was facing him. He kept it solidly on John's bad shoulder, gentle but firm.

"You _are_ good enough." Sherlock whispered. "You're better than good enough, you're- you _care_. You care, and that's what saved me. Not the doctors operating on me, not how quickly you responded after the gunshot. Knowing that you cared, that you needed me, too... I wasn't just unconscious, John, I was in my Mind Palace, micromanaging what I could control to increase my chances of survival. When I was ready to give up and die... Knowing that you needed me, that you were in danger, was what gave me the strength to keep fighting." Sherlock paused for a moment to breathe, staring at John's face as his eyes opened and he looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled softly.

"I care about you, John. No one expects you to be the shining example of a father after what you've gone through just to get here. You shouldn't expect it of yourself, either. At least not to the point of degrading your mental health."

John stared blankly into Sherlock's eyes, conflicting emotions threatening to swallow him whole. His ribs ached with the pressure of them, as if they were expanding outward from his core and filling his chest cavity.

_"... you needed me, too..."_

"You..." John breathed. "You need me?"

"Of course I do." Sherlock's hand squeezed John's shoulder gently, his thumb idly smoothing over John's jumper. "I was far more surprised to deduce that _you_ needed _me_ , to be honest. Usually I was the last thing that someone needed. The time before the storm, before Moriarty... I figured it out, then, because I'd never been happier and I could see the same in you." Sherlock's eyes widened a bit and he hurriedly added, "That's not to say that I'm not happy now, of course. I love Rosie, I can't wait to teach her all about chemistry, and-"

Sherlock stopped, mouth open and eyes trained on his hand on John's shoulder. His thumb was still smoothing over the soft fabric, but stilled after a second. The touch had turned from friendly to intimate the longer Sherlock's hand remained on John's shoulder, practically caressing the fabric there with his thumb, and John hadn't held it against Sherlock until he saw nervous panic consume Sherlock's facial expression. It became very clear to John that Sherlock was aware of the broken social norm but hadn't realized it until it was too late. His pulse was racing and so was John's. One glimpse into John's eyes told Sherlock that John had figured him out, but Sherlock couldn't tell if the stoic soldier was angry or not.

Sherlock glanced down at his hand on John's shoulder and swiftly pulled it away, beginning to blush a bright red. He stuttered, trying to figure out an excuse, but John could see through the careful facade, now. Something clicked into place in John's psyche, something that had been there but hidden behind the fear of what it meant since the first year John spent living with Sherlock. He really did care about Sherlock, more than John would let himself admit until now. Sherlock being 'married to his work' had submerged this small part of John's psyche, but seeing Sherlock be so human cleared the mental fog.  Now, finally, John could see what was _really_ there between them.

"It's fine," John said, sounding to himself like he was speaking through water. Sherlock was still rambling about an excuse, something about knowing John's shoulder was aching from the case yesterday and helping Sherlock today, but John wasn't paying much attention. "Sherlock, it's fine."

Sherlock heard John finally and stopped talking, mouth open. He slowly looked at John and found that the doctor was smiling at him, warmth and affection in his eyes. John's hand was firmly wrapped around the curve of Sherlock's shoulder - Sherlock's mind immediately supplied,  _callous but not as much as they had been when we met, warmer than average from risen heart rate, shaking slightly, nervous_ \- The deduction came to Sherlock like a freight train had slammed into his chest, nearly knocking the wind out of him.

"You..?" Sherlock whispered. A couple seconds passed and he let out a heavy breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding. "You... really? I-I thought..."

"I thought the same thing, honestly." John admitted in a light chuckle, a tiny bit nervous. Now that Sherlock was calm and John didn't have to worry about Sherlock running off or doing something reckless, John rested his hands in his lap. "It kind of just... occurred to me? Like the smoke cleared, or something. I think it has been there for a while, I just didn't know it was there."

The two looked at each other, shocked by their own emotions. It was John who spoke next. "I thought you weren't, you know..?"

"I thought so, too." The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned upwards a little bit. "My closest guess is that I began to associate you with my work. It occurred to me after I tried to solve a murder case with Molly."

"Oh?" John prompted, smirking softly.

"I kept hearing you in my head. I couldn't think, couldn't deduce anything. It was rather annoying."

John laughed softly and Sherlock joined him with a soft chuckle, both smiling and looking at each other. John's smile faded slightly, becoming more serious.

"Usually I know where to go from here," John confessed, "but I admit that right now I'm not sure what to do."

The door to the flat opened before either could continue speaking. Both men flinched slightly, startled by the noise of the door creaking open and Rosie bumbling in holding her favorite teddy bear. They had both been so lost in their conversation and confessions that they hadn't heard Ms. Hudson and Rosie drive up.

When Rosie looked over and saw John and Sherlock on the couch, she beamed. "Dadda!" John smiled warmly as she ran over, wobbling on uncoordinated feet. He reached out and picked her up when she got near, and she dropped her bear in favor of reaching out to grasp at John's jumper.

"Hey there, cuppa," John greeted, kissing her forehead. "How was your day with Ms. Hudson?"

"We went to the bookstore and ran some errands," Ms. Hudson replied, walking in and smiling at John. "She was the center of attention at the market. Three women came up to me and praised her good behavior." She looked over at Sherlock, setting her bags down by John's armchair -  _She set the groceries in the kitchen through the other door,_ Sherlock deduced - before she walked over. "How are you feeling, Sherlock?"

"Sore, but otherwise," Sherlock paused and glanced over at John, suppressing a smile, "I'm doing well."

Rosie noticed the black stringy things in Sherlock's abdomen and reached out to touch them, but John grabbed her wrist and pulled it away.

"You can't touch that, Rosie." John chided her gently. "Sherlock got hurt."

Rosie thought for a couple seconds then chose to point at the stitches, instead of reaching again. "Booboo?"

John nodded. "Yes, it's a booboo. A very bad booboo that really hurts." Rosie stared down at the wound for a little while while Ms. Hudson asked John and Sherlock about how the injury occurred. While Sherlock was explaining, Rosie tried to grab his shirt out of John's hand and tug it toward the wound. Knowing there was blood soaked into the shirt, and not wanting Rosie to see it, John pried her small hands off the fabric and stood up, holding her against his right side. "No, you can't use that, Rosie. That's dirty. Come with Dadda, we'll get Lockie something clean."

Sherlock smiled softly, watching them disappear into the kitchen, and continued to explain what the doctors had said about his injury to Ms. Hudson. The wound was neat and would heal within a month, so long as he kept it clean and didn't pop any stitches. The morphine tablets he was prescribed would last a week, but he doubted that he would need to take them all.

"Lockie!" Rosie came bounding in from the kitchen holding a small box in each hand. She held them up to Sherlock once she was next to the couch: one was a collection of cartoon characters on bandages, the other a collection of solid-colored bandages. Sherlock reached out and took the latter box from Rosie.

"Thank you, Rosamund." Sherlock smiled down at her, but she was already stumbling off back to the kitchen.

"I'll go start dinner," Ms. Hudson announced, patting Sherlock's shoulder softly before holding a hand out to take Sherlock's ruined shirt. "Want a cup of tea?"

"Yes, please. Earl Grey." Sherlock handed over the shirt and sighed, "I really liked that shirt, too."

"We'll get you another one," Ms. Hudson reassured, wrapping up the shirt into a tight ball so the dried blood was on the inside and hidden from eyesight.

As Ms. Hudson rounded the corner of the kitchen to discard of the shirt and start dinner, John walked into the sitting room and over to Sherlock. Rosie was trailing behind him, carrying a stuffed bunny. As John set down his medical supplies on the couch, Rosie walked over and threw the bunny onto the cushion beside Sherlock. Sherlock watched her grab the bear she discarded on the floor earlier and repeated the same action with it, the bear landing next to the bunny.

Rosie waddled off toward the television where the rest of her stuffed toys lay on the floor, and Sherlock murmured to John, "It appears I'm being offered sacrifices."

John glanced at Sherlock with mild disbelief then followed his eyes to his child, who was bringing over a lion toy, and they both watched her throw the toy onto the couch. It bounced against the two other toys, threatening to fall off, but Sherlock reached out and stopped it from falling. John snorted and shook his head a bit.

"Toys make you feel better and heal faster, apparently."

"I'd like to check your sources for that medical knowledge, Doctor Watson."

"My sources are listed under 'Myths That Parents Tell Children to Make Them Stop Crying'."

Sherlock chuckled softly, watching and catching the different toys Rosie brought him while John applied antibacterial ointment to the line of stitches, placed a pad of non-stick gauze on top, then taped down the edges with medical tape. By the time he was done, a pile of stuffed animals had formed on the couch next to Sherlock. John noticed it and laughed, looking over at Rosie as she waddled off in search of more toys. He followed her and picked her up, kissing her cheek.

"You are such a sweetheart, you know that?" Rosie giggled and John carried her over to the bag of brightly colored books that Ms. Hudson had left by John's armchair. "Why don't we see what books you got with Ms. Hudson?"

Bringing his daughter and the bag of books over to Sherlock and the couch, John sat down and settled Rosie on his lap. Sherlock rested his cheek against the back of the couch, watching John talk to Rosie as he looked at the different children books that Ms. Hudson bought, until slowly the morphine caused Sherlock to fall asleep.


	10. Fall

John glanced over and noticed Sherlock sleeping while Rosie poked a felt-covered lamb on the cover of the pop-up book on his lap. The corner of John's mouth turned upwards in a small smile, bordering on a smirk. Morphine was one way of getting Sherlock to rest, John guessed. He went back to talking to Rosie and looking with her at her different books, and they were halfway through one of them when Ms. Hudson popped her head in to say, "Dinner's ready, boys," she smiled at Rosie, "and girl, of course."

"Thank you again, Ms. Hudson." John told her, setting the book down on the couch and holding Rosie as he stood up.

"Of course, dear." She replied. John carried Rosie past her and set her in her highchair, clipping the plastic tray in place as Ms. Hudson continued, "Should we wake him?"

"It's likely the morphine," John replied, reaching over and grabbing one of Rosie's many bibs from a drawer, "so it wouldn't do much good to wake him."

"Oh, alright."

Plates were fixed and dinner was eaten, and as usual Rosie made a mess of herself and her clothes. Ms. Hudson wrapped a plate in foil, placed it in the fridge for Sherlock, then ducked her head into the bathroom to say goodnight to John and Rosie, who was getting a bath. Once clean and dry, John looked at the time and found that dinner and her bath took up more time than John thought it had. It was only seven o'clock, but Rosie's bedtime wasn't far away and he still had to get her dressed, which always was an ordeal. So, he carried his daughter up to his room and dressed her for bed, grabbing her favorite blanket and stuffed animal on the way. It was going to get cool tonight, so over the course of twenty minutes he managed to dress her in a long sleeve shirt and soft pajama bottoms.

But, as he was putting her in the crib, Rosie started to cry. John frowned and picked her back up; she clung to him like she wouldn't see him again, and it left John more confused than any other emotion. She hadn't thrown a fit at bedtime for weeks.

"What's wrong, cuppa?" John soothed, holding her against him and rocking slightly, shifting his balance in a gently sway. "It's just your crib, darling. See?" He patted the railing lightly.

Rosie mumbled incoherently in teary toddler talk, and John struggled to make out any words. He rubbed her back, hoping to calm her enough so she could speak a bit clearer, when he made out the word _scary_ in her rambling.

"What's scary, love?" John carried his daughter over to his end table and pulled a tissue out of a tissue box, wiping her nose and eyes.

"Dreams," Rosie mumbled, then began to cry again, "I don't want to have scary dreams, Dadda."

John remembered waking Rosie up with his night terror and his frown deepened. "Oh, sweetheart, you don't need to worry about that. Daddy has special dreams, dreams that you don't need to worry about having." Rosie tucked her teary face into John's neck, sniffling. "And if you do have a scary dream, just call for me and I'll be right here."

After a few minutes of shushing and rocking, John went to put Rosie in her crib again. She whimpered and clung onto him, and he carried her over to his bed and sat down with her.

"Dreams aren't something to be afraid of, cuppa." John reassured. "For every bad dream you have, you'll have lots of really good dreams to make you forget them."

"But I don't _want_ the bad ones."

"No one wants bad dreams, but they're going to happen sometimes." John paused, wondering how to rectify the situation. "Do you want to know a trick that I use to help me dream about good things?"

Rosie nodded slightly, and John adjusted her on his lap.

"When I lay down, I try to think about things that make me happy." He told her. "I think about things I like or something I look forward to, like what I'm going to write next or the fun I had working with Lockie."

"Do you think about Lockie?" Rosie asked then sniffled, leaning into John's chest. John nodded.

"Sometimes, yes." He brushed Rosie's blonde hair away from her face. "What are some things you could think about to make you happy before you sleep?"

"Um..." Rosie rubbed her eyes with her sleeve, and John decided it was best to let her get away with it this time rather than chide her. "I like bubbles."

"Okay." John nodded, prompting her to continue.

"Ooh, and soopaheroes!" Rosie threw her arms up toward the ceiling as if she was flying away, and John chuckled.

"You do love superheroes, yes." John smiled softly. "What about animals?"

"I like... tigers!" Rosie growled and looked up at John, making him laugh.

"I don't know, love," John teased with a grin, "I think you sound too tough for any bad dreams to get you." Rosie's eyes softened and she smiled.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, cuppa." John kissed her forehead. "How about in the morning you tell me what you dreamed about, and we'll see if our little trick helped."

"Yeah!"

John stood up and carried Rosie over to her crib, and this time she willingly let herself be put to bed. John made sure she had a stuffed toy and her favorite blanket, kissed her goodnight, then waited in the hall for a few minutes until he heard her settle down. He closed the door gently and walked down the stairs, back into the main flat.

He was surprised to see that Sherlock had moved from his spot on the couch, and was now standing in the kitchen by the dining table. Sherlock turned, hearing John's footsteps. The look that greeted Sherlock made him strangely... happy. John looked concerned, and perhaps he was also a bit mad, but mostly he had a caring look about him.

"What are you looking for?" John asked, then offered, "I can get it for you. You should be resting."

"My legs work perfectly fine, John." Sherlock countered, turning back around. He walked toward the fridge slowly, a hand over his bandage, and John was faced with a complete view of Sherlock's scarred back. His irritation at Sherlock moving about instead of asking John for help faded instantly, and he stared at Sherlock's back as Sherlock opened the fridge door and grabbed the wrapped food that Ms. Hudson had saved for him.

"You were wrong." Sherlock remarked, causing John to blink and refocus his eyes. Sherlock set the plate on the counter and gingerly unwrapped it, having to take his hand off his bandage.

"You've said that many times." John countered, walking over to the dining table. He caught Sherlock rolling his eyes.

"You're a great father." Sherlock said, placing the plate in the microwave and setting the timer. It hummed while he continued speaking. "I'm not well-versed on child-rearing or child development, but I doubt someone else could have explained post-traumatic night terrors to a two-year-old and had them understand that they would not suffer the same terrors."

John furrowed his brows and opened his mouth slightly. "... You were listening."

"A solid deduction, Doctor Watson." Sherlock teased in a hum, suppressing a smirk. "I particularly liked the bit where she asked about me."

John's ears turned pink and he clenched his jaw. The timer on the microwave dinged and Sherlock opened it. "I'm flattered that our antics make you happy, though I admit I knew that from the start. It's the reason I recruited you, after all. Not many doctors in London that would enjoy chasing down a criminal with a high-functioning sociopath."

John huffed out a disbelieving laugh, and Sherlock side-eyed him with a raised eyebrow. He set the warmed plate of food on the counter and pulled out a fork from a drawer nearby. "Do you have a secret organization of adrenaline-hungry London doctor's that I'm unaware of?"

"Not at all. I firmly believe I'm the only London doctor that finds chasing after scalpel-wielding orderlies preying on their patients to be a fun break from the dullness of routine life." Sherlock snorted softly. "But I don't buy that you're a sociopath. At least not anymore."

The smirk faded from Sherlock's mouth, and he turned his head and looked at John, studying him.

"A sociopath wouldn't have dragged me out of the mess I was in after Mary died."

_Demeanor suggests he's being genuine._

John stepped toward Sherlock, swallowing down nervousness. "A sociopath wouldn't have faked his death to keep his friends alive."

_Eyes keep shifting focus. He's contemplating something._

Stopping within Sherlock's personal space, John looked up at the taller man's eyes. Out of nervous habit, his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

"A sociopath, Sherlock Holmes..." John paused, taking a breath in, and cautiously rested a hand over Sherlock's.

_Intimate look, romantic touch. He's considering physical intimacy.  
_

"... wouldn't have come back to me." John looked down at Sherlock's chest, seeing the circular scar where Mary's bullet pierced him. "At the very least, not _for me_."

Silence hung in the air for a moment as Sherlock processed all the new stimuli he was receiving. John's touch was just as he catalogued it before, but this time it was gentler, giving Sherlock the ability to pull away.

"I wasn't aware you were a psychologist." Sherlock teased lightly, trying to distract himself from how close John was. He could feel whispers of John's breath on his chest. At his teasing, John seemed to ease somewhat, and his hand on Sherlock's relaxed.

"It doesn't take a degree to figure it out." John looked back up at Sherlock's face. "Besides, I of all the people we've interacted with over the years know what a defense mechanism looks like." Sherlock, bemused, smiled softly.

"It appears you've decided on a course of action." Sherlock mused, causing John to remember what he'd said just before Ms. Hudson and Rosie interrupted them.

_"Usually I know where to go from here, but I admit that right now I'm not sure what to do."_

"I know what I want," John licked his dry lips, "but I've got no idea what _you_ want."

"I want what I've always wanted since I left, John." Sherlock shifted his hand underneath John's so their hands could interlock. "I want to be here, with you, in whatever way that makes you comfortable."

"What if I want to be close to you?" John asked, moving a couple centimeters closer. Now that he was sure that Sherlock wouldn't react _too_ negatively, his romantic, Three-Continents-Watson confidence was returning. The teasing smile faded from Sherlock's face, and John witnessed something that he'd never seen Sherlock's body do before. Sherlock's pupils flared.

"Then I want the same." He confessed, lowering his voice. John's free hand reached up toward Sherlock's side.

"What if I want to touch you?" John whispered, ghosting his hand over Sherlock's injured side carefully.

"So long as I'm granted the same luxury with you," Sherlock watched John's hand check the tape on the bandage before he brushed his fingers over Sherlock's ribs. The ticklish feeling lasted but a moment because John's palm pressed against the same spot. John could feel Sherlock's thudding heartbeat through his rib cage.

"What if I really, _desperately_ ," John met Sherlock's eyes and held him close with his hand on Sherlock's side, being sure to keep pressure away from his wound, "want to kiss you?"

Sherlock let out a small breath that he'd been holding - he refused to believe that the word  _please_ tumbled out with it - and reached up to cradle John's jaw with one hand, his other still holding John's hand on the counter. He leaned down and pressed his lips to John's, inexperienced and unsure but passionate all the same. John's eyes closed and he let go of Sherlock's hand in favor of resting it around the curve of Sherlock's long neck. John could tell that Sherlock hadn't been lying all those years ago when he said that relationships weren't really his area of expertise, but John found it comforting more than anything else. He knew what to expect, and there was an odd sense of trust that came with it, especially after that confusing time where Sherlock was... _involved_ with Janine. John didn't think it was fitting to call it a relationship.

Before John could go any further, Sherlock pulled his lips just far enough away so he could take in a deep breath. John did the same, both men finding that their lungs were empty of air. When John exhaled, he let it out in a laugh.

"Christ," He muttered, grinning like an idiot. "I didn't realize how badly I've wanted that until today."

"Likewise." Sherlock hummed, blushing a bright pink from his neck to his cheeks. "I was fine with just being physically closer than we had been previously, had it been what you wanted, but I don't think that is an option, now." John chuckled, moving his hand from Sherlock's neck to Sherlock's ribs, both hands now resting on Sherlock's sides.

"Definitely not." John agreed. "I might not have realized it, but I've been waiting for this for a long time."

"For a homosexual encounter?"

John gave Sherlock a pointed look and rolled his eyes. "No, you twit. For _you_."

"I've been here the whole time." Sherlock countered. "Well, most of the time. I suppose some waiting may have been involved, but I wouldn't classify it as 'long'." John playfully thwacked Sherlock's uninjured side with a flick of his fingers.

"Christ, you are infuriating," John teased. "I meant that I've been waiting for _this-_ " John motioned between them with his hand, "-for us, for a long time."

Sherlock stared at John blankly for a moment.

"Us?" He cautiously repeated. John nodded.

"You said it yourself, Sherlock. Just getting to be closer to you was reward enough before today happened."

"Does this mean we're...?"

It took a moment for John to understand, and the panic that came with the doubt of what Sherlock wanted caused him to shakily supply, "Only if you want to. I'd like to - I mean, I want to be closer to you and, uh - and I don't think I want to be with... anyone... else." John trailed off, realizing he was rambling. Sherlock watched the strangely vulnerable doctor with a blank expression, but behind the mask Sherlock was struggling to comprehend the situation.

"That sounds... good." Sherlock replied absently. John frowned slightly, shifting on his feet nervously.

"Good?"

Sherlock was so consumed by thought that he mistook John repeating what he said as John asking if he was okay. "Sorry, I never considered the concept of being asked to partake in a serious monogamous relationship before. You caught me off guard." John suddenly understood the odd look on Sherlock's face moments before and let out a breath of relief.

"Oh. Good. So... you were staring at me now for the same reason that you had stared at me when I asked you to be my best man... correct? It wasn't that you were-"

"Yes." Sherlock interrupted, finally noticing how uncertain and anxious John had become and wanting to end it quickly. "I've considered the options and outcomes, and being in a relationship seems to be the most beneficial to us both."

John parted his lips to speak then paused, deciphering Sherlock's words. "So... You _do_ want to be...?"

"Yes."

One of the corners of John's mouth turned upwards in a soft smile, relieved at the answer.


	11. Down

"Christ, Sherlock, stay still!" John chided the taller man, both of them sitting on the edge of their bed. Rosie was asleep upstairs in her crib, which meant that now was the perfect time to take out Sherlock's stitches without being bothered by a toddler's grabby hands. However, Sherlock was restless and bored after having spent a month barred from crime scenes. All cases since he stopped needing the morphine were done on his laptop and were dreadfully simple, of which he kept reminding John.

"I _can't_ , John." Sherlock snarled, bouncing his knee impatiently and making the whole bed move with the movement of it. "I've- _ah!_ "

Sherlock let out a yelp when John wrapped his hands under Sherlock's knees, lifted, and shoved, all in one movement, causing Sherlock to fall back onto the mattress and slide toward the center of it. John then twisted and straddled Sherlock's thighs, putting his weight on them, and Sherlock stared up at him wide eyed.

"Wha- get off of me." Sherlock demanded, furrowing his eyebrows in irritation.

"Not until your stitches are out." John countered, grabbing his pair of thin scissors that he'd fished out from the bathroom's cabinet and set on the comforter seconds before. "Flail your arms about all you want, just keep your torso still."

"I'm not making sporadic movements for the pleasure of it, John." Sherlock corrected, glaring up at John as he leaned over and carefully examined his stitches.

"I know." John reassured, clipping the first stitch and gently pulling it free. Sherlock winced slightly, but the pain was nothing to complain about. "An idle mind is a dangerous one. I'm fully aware."

"Then hurry up already."

"I _just_ started." John shot a glare at Sherlock then cut the next stitch, freeing and dropping it on the duvet. "I would've been done by now had you sat still like I told you to."

"And _I_ told _you-_ mmf!"

John planted his free hand next to Sherlock's head and leaned down, pressing his lips firmly against Sherlock's to shut him up. The kiss was rough and unlike any of their kisses prior; it held a heat and passion to it that John had been keeping under wraps since the start of their newly-founded relationship. He had been worried to go further than kissing and touching with Sherlock because the detective was inexperienced, which could cause Sherlock to panic if John didn't give him time to adapt. However, it meant that beneath his calm exterior lurked a pool of repressed sexual tension. While expressing this tension could lead to a panicked Sherlock, if it meant that he'd shut up for a few moments and stay still, John was willing to take the risk.

It went better than expected.

Sherlock immediately relaxed beneath John, his jaw going slack just enough for John to shove his tongue in Sherlock's mouth. The taller man hummed a pleasant noise and reached up with both hands to cup John's face, returning the favor after the few seconds of surprise faded away. John started to pull back after a long moment but Sherlock tried to follow his lips with his own, refusing to part until John pushed on Sherlock's bare shoulder and put Sherlock flat on his back again.

"Focus on that and shut it." John told him sternly, looking into Sherlock's dazed eyes. He shifted and went back to work, pleased to find that Sherlock remained still. He was breathing a bit heavily, but John would rather have a breathless Sherlock than a restless Sherlock.

He managed to clip and remove a few more stitches before Sherlock came out of his daze. The blank staring at the ceiling made John wonder if he broke the detective, or if the man had retreated to his Mind Palace to process things (which wouldn't have been the first time), but he figured it was a mixture of both when he felt a hand rest on his bent knee, long fingers grazing over his jeans. John smiled, keeping his eyes and hands focused on his task.

"Are you good, now?" John teased, the soft _clip_ of the scissors cutting a stitch following his question.

"Great." Sherlock replied with a husky voice. "I think I need a few more to focus on, though." John chuckled, giving him a smirk.

"If you're good and don't move," John offered, "then you'll get as many as you want. _But_ you have to let me get the stitches out first."

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, "Fine, you have a deal."

True to his word, Sherlock remained still long enough for John to remove every stitch in his side. The promise of reward and the kiss they shared definitely helped keep his mind preoccupied, which was intriguing but not entirely surprising. Typically only cases and cocaine gave Sherlock that high of an adrenaline supply, but Sherlock had experienced a similar adrenaline spike a couple days ago when he and John shared a particularly wonderful kissing session that ended with fellatio, or as John called it, 'a blowjob'. John then left to brush his teeth and head to bed, and Sherlock then hacked into John's laptop to research what he'd experienced. A few hours later he was knee-deep in educational videos about homosexual intercourse, having learned that 'blowjob' was indeed an actual pseudonym for fellatio, and-

"I didn't break you, did I?"

Sherlock blinked, his eyes focusing on the present surroundings once more. John was standing at the edge of the bed with a grin on his face, and the tiny black strings that had been in a neat pile beside Sherlock on the bed were gone.

"My bones are intact, so no." Sherlock replied. John rolled his eyes.

"I'm going to get dressed for bed." John said aloud and walked over to the dresser beside Sherlock's armoire in the corner of the room. He started to pull his jumper over his head, and continued once he was pulling his arms out of the sleeves. "And no, before you start whinging, I've not forgotten about our deal."

"Don't."

John chuckled, dropping the jumper in the clothes hamper. "I won't, I swear."

"No, don't get dressed for bed."

John furrowed his eyebrows with a bemused look, and looked across the room at Sherlock, his hands stopped at the collar of his plaid button up. Sherlock was sat upright on the bed facing John, and his facial expression was blank and serious. John was admittedly confused.

"Why not?" He questioned, slowly continuing to undo the buttons of his shirt. Sherlock's cheeks turned pink as he thought of what to respond with.

"Because I..." Sherlock struggled to think of a better way to say what he was thinking of. "... I don't want you to."

John's face softened, shifting from confusion to affection, and he let his hands rest at his sides. He walked back over to Sherlock and the bed, noticing Sherlock's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, a nervous but excited look in his eyes. John sat down on the edge of the bed, expecting to have a conversation about preparedness and cleanliness, when Sherlock reached out to hold John's jaw in place while his mouth pressed against John's. John smirked against Sherlock's lips and kissed him back, leaning forward until Sherlock was flat on the bed and John was holding his torso above Sherlock's by his elbows on the mattress.

John broke the kiss, trailing little pecks from the corner of Sherlock's mouth, along his cheek, and down his jawline. Sherlock shivered just slightly, hands resting on John's back.

"I want to," John whispered against Sherlock's skin, "but there are logistics that I'm not sure-"

"I'm clean." Sherlock cut him off, anticipating the question before it was asked. John was a doctor, after all. "Both sexually and literally." He had to hold back a laugh at the odd look that John gave him.

"Uh, okay." John absently replied. "I'll admit, I didn't expect you to know that you'd need to... Or that you'd be..." John trailed off and Sherlock sheepishly smirked.

"Let's just say I was curious and did some research. Don't worry, nothing lewd will be in your web history. It was purely educational." John laughed and shook his head in disbelief.

"I appreciate the consideration for my web history," John teased, shifting his weight to lay partially on Sherlock take some pressure off of his shoulder, "and for us, of course. I have my own experience and medical education, but being with another man is new to me, too."

Sherlock smiled warmly, an expression that became even more frequent since they began this odd relationship, and John leaned down to press his lips against the detective's. The kiss was soft and slow, sending shivers through their skin. Sherlock slid a hand over John's clothed bicep, following the muscle up to his shoulder, and John smirked against his lips.

Pulling away with a soft, "One second," John rolled over onto his back then sat up with a soft grunt. His fingers worked at the collar of his button up, and Sherlock watched the fabric shift along his sides while he laid behind John. As the fabric became looser with each undone button, Sherlock slowly sat up. He could tell John's shoulder was bothering him, even if it was just a little bit and John wasn't aware.

John was about to pull at his sleeve cuffs behind his back when he felt two hands grip both of his wrists. He paused, wondering what Sherlock was doing, and let Sherlock's hands slip his shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. John smiled when Sherlock tossed the shirt toward the clothes hamper.

"I can't hide anything from you, can I?" John teased, looking over his shoulder at the similarly bare-chested detective behind him. Sherlock rubbed his hand over John's right shoulder and down his side, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of John's neck.

"Not even if you tried to." Sherlock's free hand ghosted over the small bullet scar on John's left shoulder blade. " _Especially_ if you tried to, in fact." John snorted. Sherlock wasn't wrong, and they both knew that. John wasn't a good liar, and it was in John's nature to ignore his aches and pains.

John turned his torso toward Sherlock and leaned in, allowing himself to be guided down on top of Sherlock as the taller man laid down. Lips pressed together but for a moment as John trailed his lips down to Sherlock's neck. With the tip of his tongue he licked upwards over Sherlock's pulse point, following the gesture with the flat of his tongue, and Sherlock hummed happily. Long fingers buried themselves in John's hair, encouraging John to continue, so he did. His mouth traveled down to Sherlock's collar bones, down his sternum, and over his ribs, shifting his body downwards as he did so. John could feel Sherlock's thudding pulse against his lips, fighting back a smirk when Sherlock whined as John sucked a red mark into the detective's pale skin. John pulled back, admiring his artwork, then pressed gentle kisses over the mark.

"If you want me to stop, just say so." John murmured, glancing up Sherlock's body at the man's face. The taller man had his eyes closed and his lips parted, a look that John recognized but had never seen on Sherlock. Sherlock shakily hummed an affirmative, hand still buried in John's hair. "'s alright if trousers come off?"

"Yes." Sherlock immediately replied. His voice was husky and lustful, with a sense of pleading accompanying it. It made John's skin shiver and goosebumps rise on his arms.

The doctor worked the button of Sherlock's trousers free then pulled the zipper down. He sat upright and tucked his fingers underneath the waistband of Sherlock's trousers, tugging them down. Sherlock lifted his hips to help, then lowered them once John had the clothing around Sherlock's thighs and helped his partner shimmy them down. John gripped the trouser legs and pulled, dropping them on the floor beside the bed once they were free.

His eyes trailed over Sherlock's almost bare body, a breath escaping his lips, "Christ." Sherlock blushed.

"Your turn." Sherlock gently hit John's knee with his hand, a teasing reminder and request to hurry up. John smirked, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans. It was much easier to do it himself than to do it for someone else, so his jeans were off and tossed by the hamper within a moment.

Much like they just had done, the two kissed and caressed for a few long moments before continuing to undress. They took their time with each other, learning and exploring, even sharing stories. Sherlock noticed the little scars and marks left in John's skin that hid beneath his undershirts during the night and his jumpers during the day, and John told the stories he could remember that accompanied them. Most of them were from the war: grenade debris, a bullet grazing, some small burn marks from hot metal casings that got underneath his clothing somehow. But a couple came from studying at Bart's, such as a shimmering white line across his bicep and a larger, jagged line along his forearm. John explained that the first was a pocketknife that a drug addict pulled on him while on shift, and the second was received while treating a patient that had been impaled through the hip by a piece of metal during a car crash. Sherlock was fascinated - it was as if he was studying the wounds of a victim during a case, but the story was more personal and intriguing because it was John. It was a part of John's story that Sherlock hadn't been there to experience alongside the soldier.

Most of Sherlock's scars, John noticed, had been patched by John himself. Only a few barely visible, fading scars from childhood exploration and the harsh scars on Sherlock's back had not been directly treated by John. There was a sense of pride knowing that John had taken care of Sherlock so many times, despite everything that had happened since they met. Sherlock could pull himself apart so many times, but John would always be there to put the detective back together.

As the kissing took a heated turn, John pried himself away long enough to inquire, "Do you care if I-?"

"You're clean, correct?" John nodded, a bit breathless. "Then no, I don't care."

John grinned and Sherlock returned the mischievous look, watching John lean over, open the bedside drawer, and grab a small bottle of lubricant that was half used. The doctor sat up and gestured for Sherlock to roll over, popping the cap open on the lubricant and sitting back on his heels. Sherlock recognized what John was asking as part of the process for what the educational videos called 'preparation' and he readily complied, flipping over onto his knees and forearms. John watched him between glances at his fingers as he poured the lubricant onto his hand, finding it incredibly difficult to take his eyes off of his partner.

As John had expected from seeing Sherlock post-shower a few times early on, Sherlock lacked any real body hair except for his arms, legs, and pubic region, and this applied to his back and rear-end as well. John was much the same way, having even been with some women that sported more hair than either man, and he found the intimate, odd similarity comforting. Attractive, even.

"Gorgeous..." John exhaled, smiling as he rubbed a hand over Sherlock's arse. His skin was so smooth and soft.

"Hurry up, John." Sherlock demanded, shifting his weight on his knees in an attempt to get more comfortable. John took it as Sherlock shaking his arse impatiently, and admittedly he wasn't too far off.

"So demanding," John teased the detective, pressing a kiss to the same spot he had caressed. Gently, John rubbed the tip of a lubed finger against Sherlock's hole and Sherlock let out a little gasp. The sudden cold against his nerves sent a chill up his spine, and he felt something - _arousal_ , his mind supplied - travel through his pulse to his groin. John continued to rub and prob, testing the resistance, and Sherlock's body slowly melted into the mattress until he was face first in the blankets with his ass in the air.

Within a few minutes, thanks to Sherlock's preparation in the shower last night, John could easily fit two fingers. He _was_ a bit bigger than average, but Sherlock was already groaning with impatience and John couldn't find himself disagreeing with the detective, so instead of adding another finger he opted to speed up the process and just be more careful.

"Alright, get comfy." John told Sherlock, removing his fingers. Eagerly, Sherlock flopped onto his back, spreading his legs for John. John couldn't help but smile and slip into place between Sherlock's thighs, leaning over the detective's torso to kiss him.

The kiss was sweet and spiked with lust, making for a dangerously addictive combination. As the smile faded from John's preoccupied lips, his hands found Sherlock's thighs and pushed on the back of them, pining them at the detective's chest. John let go of one to grab a pillow and force it underneath Sherlock's hips, pulling away to see what he was doing. The detective watched with hungry eyes, lifting his hips for the doctor. John patted Sherlock's thigh once he was done adjusting the pillow and Sherlock lowered his hips, rocking them to flatten out the pillow a bit. John grabbed the lubricant and poured some onto his palm, coating himself generously and setting the lube off to one side.

"How's your shoulder?" Sherlock asked, feeling a bit nervous and awkward at the quiet space between them. John smiled, seeing right through the question, and moved closer. As he did, Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest.

"It's fine, love." John gave Sherlock a tender gaze. "Now just relax, alright? You don't have to fill the silence. Be as loud or quiet as you want." John fitted himself between Sherlock's legs, one hand around the base of his length and one rubbing soothing circles over the side of Sherlock's thigh. "Well, don't wake up anybody, but yeah." The doctor flashed a jovial expression at Sherlock, and the detective smirked softly. He took a breath and tried to relax, but his nerves were all singing with stimulation in a way he'd never experienced before.

John pressed closer, the tip of his length touching Sherlock's entrance, and the detective's breathing stuttered. The soldier smiled softly, watching his partner's face for discomfort as his hips pressed closer. When the tip finally breached the tight ring of muscle, Sherlock closed his eyes and his eyebrows furrowed. John rubbed and massaged the backs of Sherlock's thighs and stopped pushing his hips forward, letting Sherlock adjust and have all the time he needed.

After a few moments of watching and waiting, John whispered, "Good?"

Sherlock immediately nodded, eyes still closed. John leaned down, his chest forcing Sherlock's knees to spread apart to allow him closer, and he pressed soft kisses over Sherlock's tensed face. As the detective let out a shaky breath and his brow relaxed, John trailed his kisses down Sherlock's cheek to his neck. The jolt of arousal left Sherlock's calves shaking, and wordlessly John reached back with a gentle hand and guided Sherlock's knee toward his back.

"Rest your legs on my back. No, bit lower. You're not climbing a tree, love." John jokingly teased when Sherlock wrapped his long legs around the middle of John's back. " _Relax_." Sherlock lowered his calves to the small of John's back and John kissed Sherlock's neck, giving it a gentle lick before moving to Sherlock's lips. His tongue brushed over Sherlock's bottom lip, asking for entry, and when Sherlock parted his lips for John the doctor groaned happily and searched Sherlock's mouth with his tongue. With free hands now that his legs were resting on John's back, Sherlock held John's face in his hands and kissed him back with fervor.

He nearly forgot the intimacy of the moment until he felt John's erection pushing further into him.

Sherlock gasped; the pain was gone for the most part, but an uncomfortable feeling was left in its wake. He wondered why this was supposed to be pleasurable, but he trusted John. John knew what he was doing, even if he wasn't as confident in himself as Sherlock was in him. Suddenly, Sherlock felt John's length brush up against something deep inside him and his body convulsed, shaking with the pleasure. John smiled knowingly and pulled back a bit before rocking forward, causing Sherlock to whine softly through parted lips. Now it became very apparent to Sherlock why he wanted this in the first place.

"Fucking hell, you're gorgeous." John breathed, slowly and carefully rocking his hips against Sherlock's arse while watching the detective's face. Sherlock slid his hands down to John's back and dug his fingers in, eyes tightly closed.

"John," Sherlock huffed in a restricted breath. His chest was so tight it felt like someone was standing on his sternum. John kept his slow pace and pressed gentle kisses to Sherlock's neck between heavy exhales.

"Breathe, baby." John purred next to Sherlock's ear, smiling against his neck. "You've got to breathe." The detective took a shaky breath, forcing his lungs to cooperate with him, and the heavy weight on his ribs lessened just a bit. "There you go." John grinned devilishly and reached back with one hand to stroke along the outside of Sherlock's thigh as he licked a stripe along Sherlock's exposed neck. Sherlock felt a shiver run up his nerves from the sensations and moaned breathily.

"More." He pleaded. "Please. I need it." John pulled his torso away from Sherlock's and put both hands on the bed, shifting his weight to his arms, and picked up the tempo. Sherlock's back arched and his finger nails scraped down John's shoulder blades to the doctor's biceps, Sherlock groaning lowly from deep in his chest. John's name became a mantra on Sherlock's lips, and John found that the faster he went the louder Sherlock became.

Grinning sinfully, John thrusted into Sherlock harder, slowing his pace down just slightly, and he growled into Sherlock's ear, "I can't wait for the day that no one is home but us. You're gonna be hoarse by the time we're done."

"Fuck..." Sherlock whimpered and chuckled slightly. "Need to do it soon."

"So you're having fun?" John teased lightly, his breaths becoming pants.

"God yes." Sherlock huffed. "I feel like I'm going to implode."

"Well, let's see that happen."

John reached between them with his left hand, putting all his weight on his right, and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's length. It was hot to the touch and throbbing, begging for attention, and John was more than willing to give said attention. He stroked Sherlock's erection in time with his hips thrusting into the detective, and Sherlock groaned loudly. John stopped his pelvis and put his right hand over Sherlock's mouth.

"You gotta stay quiet, babe. I've only got two hands."

Sherlock's hand fell from John's bicep and wrapped around John's hand on Sherlock's length.

"Hurry up and move," Sherlock demanded in a muffled voice, his eyes fixated on John's. John rolled his eyes at the taller man's bossy tone and put his weight on his right hand again, giving Sherlock a pillow from nearby. The detective stroked himself and looked at the pillow oddly as it was placed over his mouth.

"Muffle yourself." John ordered. Dirty images filled Sherlock's mind and it was enough to pull him over the edge. John could feel Sherlock's orgasm hit him and, rightfully so, pressed his hand against the pillow on Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock moaned obscenely and John's entire body shook with the arousal it caused, Sherlock'd body acting like a vice grip around John's. The second Sherlock's moan began to trail off, John planted both hands on the mattress once more and started a brutal pace. Sherlock gripped the pillow with one hand and held it against his mouth while his other hand pumped his length, his heavy panting muffled.

"Yes," Sherlock whimpered, watching John's face as he approached his own climax. John's eyes were squeezed closed, his mouth hung open, and it was the most beautiful image Sherlock had ever seen. Sherlock tossed the pillow to the side and whispered, "Kiss me."

John opened his eyes for a second and leaned down, locking lips with Sherlock in a deep kiss. They both could only last for a few seconds before having to breathe, but John kept his lips close to Sherlock's.

"Fu..." John choked out, burying himself into Sherlock's body and clutching onto Sherlock's hip. After a couple seconds his lungs began to work again and he huffed out a heavy pant. Sherlock peppered kisses all over John's face.

"I love you," Sherlock purred repeatedly, reaching up to cup John's face and brush his sweaty hair away from his face as he kissed his skin. John smiled as the lustful tension eased away, his hand stroking over Sherlock's waist and thigh.

"I love you, too." John rumbled in a husky voice. "You'll want to shower, by the way."

Sherlock smiled and kissed John's lips chastely. "Why don't you join me?"

John smirked. "That sounds like a lovely idea. Give me an hour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long to finally finish this fanfiction! I had my own mental roadblocks to go through before I was ready and willing. I hope the wait was worth it, though. Thank you for reading!


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